


In Ash and Blood

by prettygirllostt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, John is badass, M/M, Repolock, and a bit of Repo Men, based in the world of Repo! the Genetic Opera, everyone is sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygirllostt/pseuds/prettygirllostt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the world of Repo! the Genetic Opera and with hints of Repo Men, Sherlock Holmes is a repo agent in need of a body guard. John Watson is a dangerous young man with nowhere to go. Together, they work for GeneCo and the London headquarters which is run by Mycroft Holmes. With his heirs, Irene and Jim, Mycroft runs the company but soon he runs into trouble. </p><p>Sherlock and John become part of an intricate plan to keep GeneCo from psychotic hands all while working their nightly job and of course, attending the opera. </p><p>I do not own Sherlock or any material from Repo, this is written just for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [http://enigmaticanomaly.tumblr.com/](/gifts?recipient=http%3A%2F%2Fenigmaticanomaly.tumblr.com%2F).



The night was never quite quiet in the city of London. At least, not after the mass organ failure and the rise of GeneCo in the face of such horror. There was always the sound of screaming and always the heavy weight of apprehension. The repo men were the stuff of nightmares and no one ever knew who they were. There were stories of people who lived in the walls and heard when you admitted your guilt. There were tales of men not made of flesh and blood, but of mechanics who tore your still beating heart from your chest because you hadn’t paid.  There were other more believable stories that they were people, just like everyone else and it could be your best friend cutting your chest open to get to your manufactured heart. Those were the most terrifying.

            In the city streets botched experiments walked. People who had changed their skin, their nose and even their hearts so much that the only original body part they had left were their feet (for some reason, GeneCo didn’t change feet). Many of them were on repo watch and even more of them could be found bloody and torn open once the next sunrise came. No one knew how many repo men there were or how they found their victims, but no one wanted to ask, either. Locked doors were nothing to the repo men and it was a lonely life of distrust that came with GeneCo and its global domination.

            Those who wished to be frugal and safe were sneered at, especially when they were damaged goods. John Watson was one of them. He’d been shot in the shoulder long before GeneCo’s takeover and instead of falling into the trap of trending scalpel use; he budgeted to pay for his kidney and ignored his aching shoulder. In a world of plastic perfection, he was shunned.

 

            The London night found him leaning on his cane while he watched the Grave Robber shoot Zydrate into the thick thighs of the women who sold themselves to pay their bills. None of them looked at him. None of them called out. Why would they? In a world of impeccable looks and appalling taste, john Watson was nothing special.

 

            Sherlock Holmes had a lot on his mind which meant that he wasn’t paying much attention to where he was walking or if there was someone in front of him. When he slammed into the smaller man they both tumbled backward before regaining their footing. For being so much shorter, he was very solid. Sherlock looked down with a displeased frown only to stop. The man in front of him was injured. A past injury, but an injury no less. He was also nearly 100% natural.  Out of everyone Sherlock knew, only three were more that 80% natural and one of them was himself. Besides what Sherlock guessed to be a replaced kidney, the man in front of him was purely himself.

            “Excuse me,” he snapped, taking in the shorter form. 

            If the man held himself straight, he would actually have been very attractive. He was young, probably around Sherlock’s age it seemed, with his sandy colored hair, dark coat and slightly opened shirt that showed the beginnings of a gnarled scar. He had an edge that matched with his cool eyes and his GeneCo dog tags were not tucked in, proving he had paid his dues. He seemed on edge and Sherlock tucked his gloved hands into his coat pockets. He didn’t have a job to be at since he’d just finished one, he wasn’t in much of a rush. All that was left to do was bring it to the cataloguing facility and meet with his step brother about future assignments and worrisome little details.

            “Look where you’re going next time,” John snapped.

            “You’re natural,” Sherlock said with a smug smile. He didn’t need greetings, they were only perfunctory. Polite conversation for him only went so far and he knew he wouldn't need it with this man.

            John didn’t turn away from him but instead studied his features. When the taller man had unceremoniously thrown him backward he had been annoyed. Now he was interested. He found that mildly fascinating in itself since he hardly ever got interested in anything since he’d come back to London.

            “Mostly. How did you know that?” he asked, peering up into bright blue eyes that couldn’t possibly be natural.

            “I am too. Well. Besides my heart. Need a strong heart to survive,” he said. It sounded as if he meant it two ways and John tipped his head slightly so he could look at the man in the badly lit street.

            “They are a jumpy lot, aren’t they?” the man said, looking over his head to the women he’d been watching. He turned and noticed the Grave Robber was gone and the women were leaning on the building trying not to look high.

            “They don’t like new people. Everyone could be the repo man,” John explained.

            Sherlock snorted. “That is hardly true. They are easy to spot.”

            “Who are you?” John asked.

            Sherlock gave him a fleeting smile, showing off perfect white teeth and John marveled at the beauty of the man all without GeneCo’s influence.  He missed the awe of organic beauty, he found.

            “I am Sherlock Holmes and you have nowhere to be. Come with me,” he said.

            He began to stride down the street making the woman scatter and John turned with a baffled frown.

            “I’ve just met you. We know nothing about each other but you want me to come with you?”

            Sherlock sighed. “I know everything I need to know about you, John Watson. You’re a doctor but you don’t practice anymore. Possibly because you don’t like GeneCo or possibly because of your injury. You have a sibling but you aren’t close. You don’t trust people easily but you’re standing here talking to me, so it must be something to do with surgery and the inability to trust someone who doesn’t like themselves so much that they replace not only their face but their organs. You don’t have a lot of money and you’re struggling to stay in London, but you don’t want to find yourself anywhere else. That’s all I need to know for right now. Now, come along,” Sherlock spoke quickly.

            John blinked and followed along as he asked, “How did you know my name?”

            “GeneCo dog tags, you left them hanging out,” Sherlock said without looking back.

            They walked side by side; John’s dark jeans clinging to his hips in the heavy heat, making him turn to Sherlock with puzzlement since the mysterious man was wearing a heavy wool trench coat but didn’t show any signs of overheating.

            “How are you not boiling?” he asked when the sweat began to make his shirt stick to his chest and his hand began to feel stuck to his cane.

            Sherlock shot a glance at John. “I am,” he said seriously.

            John laughed. “So you just wear that thing to look cool,” he said.

            Sherlock actually wore the coat to hide the blood stains on his shirt from his earlier job, though something in him told him that John wouldn’t balk from the blood.  He pulled it tighter around him and said defensively, “There’s a reason, I just can’t tell you yet.”

            John chuckled and said to himself, “I must be crazy.”          

            “Why is that?” Sherlock asked. He seemed to be bringing them deeper into the city and closer to the GeneCo headquarters. Most people stuck to the outer limits of the city except when the opera’s happened. Even then, only the rich and mechanical went to the actual event.

            “I’m following you into the city. A strange man in a trench coat when it’s nearly reached a boiling point even at night, who says he knows everything about me. I am crazy,” John marveled.

            Sherlock felt compelled to reply, “I don’t know everything. Only the important things.”

            “How did you know about the sibling?” John asked.

            “Your dog tags. I know how to read GeneCo tags, John. There’s a single slash at the end of your name which means another family member is also in the system. You’re living alone in the city but you seem rather young which means it’s probably a sibling since a parent would never want their child here and you seem the kind to bide a parents wishes. What happened with them? You wouldn’t be on the streets outside of a nearly condemned building that you most likely live in if you still had a sibling to fall back on,” Sherlock never once looked over at John and the shorter man felt a spurt of adrenaline when asked about his sibling.

            “She died,” he said stiffly.

            “Not repossessed though. Close to it, but she died beforehand. How?” Sherlock seemed to order John to tell him.

            John ran his fingers through his hair in frustration making it stand in short spikes. Sherlock peeked at the attractive man out of the corner of his eye before looking back in front of them. People scattered as they walked by. They were nearing GeneCo headquarters and soon there would be no one on the streets at all. Those who lived in central London didn’t come out at night. They didn’t like to see the mess of repo men coming in to catalogue their hauls. He didn’t know how John would react, but Sherlock could tell, John was a dangerous man and Mycroft had been hinting that Sherlock needed a guard just as much as any other repo man. Sherlock wasn’t about to let his step brother choose his guard for him. Not again. He hoped John Watson would be up to the task.

            Sherlock swept around the corner of the opera house as John said, “We couldn’t afford to finance another liver. She drank away the first one. She was already about to be repossessed even though we were doing everything we could. Harry and I never got on, but she didn’t deserve that death.”

            “No, there is no glory in your body failing you,” Sherlock said softly.

            John absorbed that before turning to Sherlock. “Enough. Where are we going?”

            “My work,” Sherlock replied.

            “Why?” John asked.

            “Because I have to catalogue my nightly incomings to make money. And because my step brother requested it.”

            John connected the dots. He stopped. The man beside him was a repo agent. The stuff of nightmares. John took another look. Tall, long coat, dark curly hair on the brink of being too long. Beautiful blue eyes and perfect teeth. Alabaster skin and the flash of laced up, knee high boots over tight black pants with a black silk shirt tucked in. The boots had once been standard issue for Genetic Works doctors but had become the sign of a repo agent when GeneCo bought out the company. They also were a trendy piece of clothing for those who wished to instill fear. Sherlock didn’t need to instill fear, people turned away from him just by looking at his face. He was too beautiful in a way that was almost too painful.  John decided he must have a weapon on him somewhere and he checked the man’s back.

            “What are you doing?” Sherlock sounded amused.

            “You’re a repo agent. I’m checking to see if you have a weapon.”

            “Knife rings, if you must know, but you won’t find them,” Sherlock replied, “You, on the other hand are carrying a gun on your thigh. Very useful.”

            “How did you…?” John trailed off.

            “You walk with a cane but you don’t limp very much. It gives you the freedom to cow your leg into yourself so no one can see it,” Sherlock said.

            John sighed and nodded. “So why am I coming with you? You deduced that I don’t want to work for GeneCo as a doctor, so why are you bringing me to the headquarters?”

            “This is only the London headquarters, as you know so I’m really not bringing into too much of the company,” Sherlock said vaguely. John raised his eyebrows.

            “If you must know, my step brother runs the company. He’ll tell you it’s only a minor position of power, but he’s lying through his teeth. Something you probably don’t know is that most repo agents have a body guard. Even though we are all trained in self-defense, working a job can lead to people trying to kill you. Sentiment. Fear. Waste of time, really but I digress. A guard is put with each agent to make sure death doesn’t occur. As you might have guessed, not many wish to choose this is a profession and even fewer actually have the skills. Repo agents are precious. I don’t have a guard since my last one tried to strangle me while I slept. It was taken care of, but since then my step brother has been badgering me to find a new one and when I saw you, I figured you could use the money and the sense of danger. Also, guards live with their agents and as you already know I’m an agent, that’s the worst thing about me out in the open. Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked.

            They had reached GeneCo headquarters but Sherlock waited outside the door. He took in John’s fleeting expressions before John spoke and was confident in the answers he would be receiving.

            “Who said anything about flat mates?” John asked in a somewhat strangled voice.

            “I did. Just now.” Sherlock tapped his toe, giving John the hint that the boots were steel toed.

            John didn’t say anything else for quite some time and Sherlock let out a strangled sigh and put his hand on the door.

            “We don’t have all night. Are you interested, or not?” he finally snapped.

            “I was all the way on the other side of London. Why didn’t you just ask me there?” John queried.

            “This was easier,” Sherlock replied.

            “No, it wasn’t.”

            “Just say you’ll consider it and get inside. While I don’t mind annoying my dear brother by being late, being ridiculously late is not only careless, it’s dangerous. Especially when it comes to Mycroft,” Sherlock said darkly.

            John thought about it, resigned himself to the fact that it seemed to be his only option and let Sherlock herd him in the door. Only when they were approaching the startlingly white front desk did he turn and stare at Sherlock with a mix of awe and terror as something fell into place.

            “Holmes?! Mycroft Holmes is your brother?” he gaped.

            Sherlock put his hand on the small of John’s back and pushed him forward.

            “Step brother,” Sherlock corrected.

            “Why aren’t you beside him like that Adler woman and Jim Moriarty?” John asked.

            Sherlock ignored him to peer at the woman behind the desk.

            “So nice to see you, Sally,” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

            “Evening freak. Who’s this?” she inclined her head at John. John  stayed silent and Sherlock answered.

“He’s with me. I got all but one tonight. Nasty brute hid in a laundry chute,” he said, swinging a bag from inside his coat and emptying it onto the counter.  
John felt slightly ill as Sally reached out with black gloved hands and began to pull each separate bag apart to read the names. It wasn’t that they were organs to him, he was a doctor, he’d removed and fixed up many organs in his day, it was the names. They were once a part of people and now they were bags on a table being sorted by a woman dressed all in white.  
“Relax,” Sherlock said under his breath, “only one of these people died tonight.”  
Sally looked at him sharply. “You aren’t supposed to waste time sorting them out. Cut them and leave,” she snapped.  
“This one,” he said, lifting a bag, “was only a teenager. It was an appendix. No idea why she needed a replacement of something so dull, but it was quite easy to sew her back up, I assure you I wasted no time. Besides, she might grow into quite the little customer. She had five tags so far and she isn’t even legal yet. The rest were small hauls and you’d know that if you bothered to read the tags.”  
Sally sighed and began to scan the bar codes on the bags.  
“You can go on up. I know he’s expecting you,” she said when Sherlock began to fidget.  
“This way,” he said to John, directing him to the gray elevator. They stepped inside and Sherlock hit the button for the highest floor.  
“Identification,” a somewhat bored voice said over the intercom.  
“Lestrade. It’s Sherlock. I’m late, just let me up,” Sherlock said.  
“Identify your…companion and you can,” the voice, Lestrade, answered.  
John stared at the wall and resolved to not feel dizzy from all the changes in one night. He’d been only days away from living on the streets when Sherlock ran into him and now he was standing in the elevator of the biggest world corporation, about to meet the man in charge of nearly all of it. It was a lot to take in. He leaned on his cane and pressed his fingers against the gun on his thigh. Sherlock gave him a fleeting grin, as if it would put him at ease, and answered.  
“Doctor John Watson. Might be on file for Genetic Works. If not, just tell my brother he is the godsend Mycroft has been looking for.”  
There was a pause over the intercom where they waited and John wondered what would happen to him if he didn’t pass whatever inspection GeneCo had for him. It was a short lived thought.  
“Right then. Up you come. He feels the need to point out you’re late,” Lestrade said.  
“As always, Lestrade, as always,” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
The intercom turned off with a small whine. The elevator began to move and Sherlock turned to John.  
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked seriously.  
“You’re asking this now?” John snapped backed incredulously.  
“Yes. Are you sure. Once we do this there is no going back,” Sherlock said.  
John pondered his actions. Harry was dead. Their parents long gone. He didn’t want to practice medicine anymore and since he’d been shot he wasn’t even sure he could. What else did he have? He was bored out of his mind in his life. If he didn’t do what Sherlock asked, he might just end up using his gun on himself. Just as he was about to answer, Sherlock spoke.  
“Could be dangerous,” he said darkly, his voice low and rich. There was a spark in his eye that promised excitement and something in John leapt at that. If he hadn’t been about to say yes, that would have changed his mind. He gave a curt nod as the elevator doors opened.  
Together they turned and John caught his first in life glimpse of Mycroft Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mycroft and learns something interesting about Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having way too much fun with this. 
> 
> Please leave comments! I love to hear what people thought! Good and bad.

Mycroft didn’t actually look like anything terrifying. He was slightly chubby with cold eyes and he inclined his head slowly as Sherlock stepped out of the elevator. John followed.

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted.

            “Mycroft. Where are your lap dogs?” Sherlock asked.

            “They are working, as always,” Mycroft said stiffly.

            “Right. You wanted to speak with me?”

            “I wanted to discuss this childish petulance you seem to have about a guard, but it seems you’ve moved past that. Doctor John Watson, we were so disappointed that you decided not to stay on with us as a surgeon. After the war as we so kindly like to call it we had hoped to carry over much of Genetic Works surgeons and workers. Despite your shoulder we had hoped to find a compromise. It’s a shame you felt the need to leave us,” Mycroft said with a slight smile.

            John shifted his stance so the gun on his leg was obvious. Sherlock smiled, pleased and Mycroft became more stoic.

            “You don’t seem very afraid,” he commented.

            “You don’t seem very frightening,” John said, on edge.

            Mycroft switched focus very quickly, turning back to Sherlock. “You must be sweltering. Do take off that coat.”

            “If you want to see the blood spatter, just ask, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, “you know me. You can’t trick me. It doesn’t work.”

            Sherlock brought his hands up and pulled the coat slowly from his shoulders. If they were anywhere else, John would have believed it to be deliberately sexy but instead it just looked mutinous. When he held it out with one gloved hand, John automatically took it. Mycroft watched the movement before bringing his eyes back to Sherlock. John was surprised, to say the least. Sherlock was covered in blood. He stripped his gloves with ease, dropping them on the floor in what seemed like an act of defiance. There was blood down his chest and alone his back. It was spattered along his arms and it seemed to even have gotten into his hair.

            “Jesus, Sherlock, did you bathe in it?” John asked before he could stop himself.

            Sherlock turned a fleeting smile on him. “As you know, John, GeneCo doesn’t allow the use of Zydrate in repossessions. It is rather hard to restrain someone so unwilling to have themselves cut open. It is hard to avoid splatter.”

            “Oh,” was all John could manage.

            “Also why I’ve been hoping you would take on a guard. So, Doctor Watson, do you plan to continue this association with Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, once more turning his attention to the doctor.

            “I’ve just met him,” John said. Something about Mycroft annoyed him. He didn’t feel the need to be polite.

            “Yes, and yet you’ve already followed him across London, stood by while he catalogued organs and came to meet me. Should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Mycroft smiled in what could have been perceived as politeness but John took to be smug. He frowned and Sherlock jumped in.

            “I’ve done what you asked of me, Mycroft. May I go home now? I have many experiments that need my attention,” he said smoothly. He put on hand behind his back and flexed it before making a fist. John took that to mean he needed to back down. He relaxed back onto his heels.

            “Right then. Here is your projected list for the week. Names, numbers and tags as always. I’ve given you some bigger hauls. Let’s see if your doctor is up for it. See Anthea on your way out. She’ll get Doctor Watson all sorted.”

            Sherlock nodded and turned for the door when Mycroft’s voice reached them once more. It was almost a purr as he said, “Oh, and Sherlock, do stop sewing them up when you’re done. You’re wasting perfectly good time. You know what will happen if you don’t.”

            There was a slight hitch in Sherlock’s step and John saw something cross his face as he turned back to Mycroft. Slowly he picked up his gloves and said with icy intent, “Try not to start a riot on our way home, you know how it clogs up the traffic.”

            With the final word, he turned and nearly shoved John from the room. They passed a young man with light brown hair and a soft face as Sherlock propelled him forward.

            “Sherlock?” the man said, his body turning to follow their direction.

            “Good evening, Lestrade. Do tell my brother I send my regards,” Sherlock snapped without stopping.

            “For what?” Lestrade called back, baffled.

            “For your engagement, of course,” Sherlock shouted.

            “Oy!” Lestrade said loudly as the few people in the office turned to stare at him. John couldn’t help but snicker as Sherlock shoved him into the elevator. He hit the button for floor 5 and leaned back against the wall when the doors opened. John held out his coat but Sherlock simply took it and draped it over his arm. He blew out a sigh and looked at his hands. He had shoved his gloves into his back pocket and John could see blood spatter on his wrists.

            “Blood so often stains. Pity. I liked this shirt,” he said.

            “Don’t you have a uniform?” John asked.

            Sherlock leveled a gaze at him that said volumes about his character. “Right,” John said.

            The doors opened and Sherlock moved out of the elevator without waiting for John. John sighed and saw a long future of following along behind Sherlock Holmes as he ran off into whatever danger happened to come around the corner. John limped after him, turning his leg in so his gun was once again hidden. He found Sherlock stopped at a low desk, his blood stained hands gripping the side of the desk, his back curved as he leaned forward.

            “Yes, here he is. Got himself a bit injured in the war,” Sherlock said when John came closer.

            “Ah,” the woman behind the desk said with a brief smile, “well, let me see your tags and I’ll get you the new ones by tomorrow evening.”

            John couldn’t help but notice that she was stunning. As a GeneCo agent, she had gold plaited dog tags and he studied them. Anthea Jones, they read. She had two family members in the system and no spouse. He smiled at her. She grinned back with more warmth.

            “Hello,” he said warmly.

            “Hello. So you are Mr. Holmes’s new body guard. An injured body guard, how interesting,” she purred, leaning forward and cupping her chin with her right hand. She didn’t seem put off by the scar traveling along his shoulder.

            John froze. She had six tags wrapped around her wrist. He counted the ones around her neck. Twelve tags around her neck. He backed up. She was a Zydrate junky, a woman addicted to the knife. His interest froze in his veins.

            “Well, leave it to me to find the most interesting guard,” Sherlock said, his weight shifting so he was closer to John. He smelled of blood and ash and something about the scent made John feel dizzy. He unconsciously found himself leaning closer to the man in return. Anthea frowned.

            “You could have just said,” she snapped, glaring at the space between them that had once been bigger.

            Sherlock let a smile flit across his face as he pushed himself up away from the desk.

            “New eyes?” he asked pointedly.

            “None of your business. Your new tags will be in tomorrow night. Stop in before you start the evening haul. Both of you, Sherlock. You need your tags replaced now, too,” she said, all business once more.

            “Laters,” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

            Once again, with the final word, he swept toward the stairs.

            “Sherlock,” John started, looking at his leg. He didn’t particularly want to walk down 5 flights of stairs with his cane.

            “Oh, come here,” Sherlock said, irritated.  John took a cautious step forward. Sherlock shoved him into the stairwell and began to unbuckle his jeans.

            “Sherlock! What?” John tried to push Sherlock’s hands away but Sherlock only shook his head and pushed his hands away.

            “You can’t walk correctly with that gun on you. You’re a guard now and I live in a relatively safe area. You can carry the gun out of your pants, now,” he explained.

            John wasn’t sure if what he felt was a flood of relief or a flood of annoyance that Sherlock was only trying to get to his gun.

            “Okay, well let me go and I’ll move it, you git,” John said.

            Sherlock took a step back watching John shove his fly down and wiggle his jeans down  so they rested below his hips. He wasn’t wearing any pants and he half turned so Sherlock wouldn’t see anything indecent.

            “You wear your trousers quite tight,” Sherlock said mildly.

            “Shut up,” John said, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he tried to release the sheath he kept the gun in and pull it up.

            “I could help you,” Sherlock said with amusement.

            “No, no you really couldn’t,” John said as he finally extracted the gun from its sheath and pulled it with a wince from his thigh.

            He handed it to Sherlock who took it with a slight face and waited for John to zip his jeans back up. John was well built and with his jeans resting low enough to show the contours of his hip bones, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice. His shirt was lightweight most likely out of practicality and was rolled up to his elbows. Sweat had soaked through the back; he’d noticed when he’d propelled John to and from the rooms and now he saw the shirt clinging to John’s chest while he tried to find a place to put the gun.

            “Uh…” John ran his hands down his side and along his legs as if hoping to find a spot to place the gun.

            “Here,” Sherlock stepped closer and John backed up until his back hit the wall.

            “Relax,” Sherlock said with a small smile, “I’m a married man.” He held up his hand and John noticed the gold band in his finger.

            “Oh.” There seemed to be nothing else to say.

            Sherlock stuck his hand partially into John’s front pocket and nodded after a moment. He checked the safety on the gun and then shoved it into John’s open pocket. John jumped.

            “With any luck we won’t run into any trouble tonight and you won’t need to run. If we do, just make sure you grab it. Your jeans are rather tight, I’m afraid a good run would knock that out of your pocket rather quickly,” Sherlock said.

            With that, Sherlock led the way down the stairs. John left his cane leaning against the wall.

            As they walked out into the sticky night John asked, “How long have you been married?”

            “Oh, it would have been 6 years this coming August,” Sherlock replied, looking up at the ashen sky.

            “Did you know they only burn the organs? We put them in drawers, catalogue them, draw whatever blood is left in them, clean that and catalogue it, then burn it. It’s why the sky is always so dark. Constant ash across the entire planet,” Sherlock said.

            “Would have been?” John asked, undeterred by the change in topic.

            “Victor died 3 years ago,” Sherlock said.

            “Oh,” John said. There didn’t seem to be an adequate response.

            Sherlock gave him a flickering smile before walking away from the building.

            “You’re wondering what kind of person I would end up marrying,” he said.

            John didn’t bother answering. If he’d learned anything about Sherlock in the few hours they’d spent together, it was that he saw things other people didn’t. If he saw the question in John’s face and acknowledged it, John didn’t need to confirm.

            “Victor was the opposite of me and that made him my match. We met in school before the organ failure and the war between Genetic Works and GeneCo. We were together for a long time. Victor had a heart defect. It kept him from leaving the house too often. I was working for Genetic Works trying to find a cure. It was only right after the war that he took a turn for the worse. GeneCo funded my research and offered Victor a new heart. He refused. He wanted a cure, not a quick fix as he called it. He had too much faith in me,” Sherlock said, glancing at John, “His heart gave out before I ever found a cure. I’m embarrassed to say I lost myself for a while after that. I stopped working and stayed holed up in our house. It wasn’t until Mycroft managed to get ahold of the London headquarters that I was forced to come back to the living. He offered me a job. I had extensive medical knowledge and ethics that are a bit skewered. If I became a repo agent, I could pay off Victor’s health debts and ensure that no one would know that I talked him out of a manufactured heart.”

            “You?” John asked, thinking back to Sherlock telling him his heart was manufactured.

            “I know. Hypocritical, isn’t it? But I wanted him to have no debts to GeneCo. You know what they do to those who can’t pay. What they do to those who can. Either end of that stick is a bad one. I saw how you looked at Anthea. 18 tags and those are only the ones you can see. Mycroft pays for them of course. He needs to have his staff looking their best at the opera’s,” He gestured up to the flickering screen where three impeccably dressed young woman interviewed the Queen of GeneCo, Molly Hooper.

            “I didn’t want Victor to end up that way. Either way it could have gone. I talked him out of it and I poured hopeful cures down his throat for years in the hopes of finding it. After he died, GeneCo stopped looking for cures. They began to manufacture only. I don’t much care for my own name, but Mycroft does. If word got out that a Holmes talked his spouse out of an organ it could be considered willful slaughter. Funny, isn’t it? That I became a repo agent to quall going to jail for willful slaughter.”

            He laughed without humor and John looked up at the taller man with sympathy.

            “No use feeling sorry for me, John, it was years ago now. I’ve accepted this fate. The question is, will you?” Sherlock said looking down.

            John didn’t answer, but then, he suspected he didn’t have to. He’d followed Sherlock across London without knowing him. He’d walked into GeneCo headquarters despite it being the single place he hated with every fiber of his being. He’d also walked out with the promise of a job working with a repo agent. If he’d been asked earlier that day what he thought of repo men, he would have spit and swore to the high heavens that they were all monsters. If he was asked now, all he’d picture was the tall men beside him who hid his sorrow behind science and knowledge. He didn’t need to answer the question; they both already knew what the answer was.

            “Do you mind the violin?” Sherlock asked abruptly. They turned down a side street that looked as if it had once been a main road. A dusty sign read “Baker Street”.

            “What?”

            “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end, will that bother you?”

            “No…” John trailed off.

            “Good. Right. Then let’s go in,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the door they were stopped in front of.  He pulled a key from his pocket and pushed open the door, looking back at John with apprehension. John followed him in silently.

            There seemed to be three apartments in the one building and they stood in the foyer while a hologram popped up.

            “Oh, Sherlock. Home again. I read you’ve brought a friend. Another man. A month younger than you. Fit. Good heart beat.  How wonderful. There is the upstairs bedroom if you’ll be needing two,” the hologram said with a smile.

            It was an older woman dressed in dark shades of purple. She flickered in the hallway and looked almost motherly. Her hands were crossed in front of her and she nearly beamed.

            “The house is programed with the face of the original owner. This is Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said by way of explanation.

            “There is the upstairs bedroom if you’ll be needing two,” she repeated.

            “Of course we’ll be needing two,” John said with a frown.

            “Oh no worries dear, we have all sorts around here. Why, Mrs. Turner next door married her help!” Mrs. Hudson laughed.

            “Her help is a robot,” Sherlock said under his breath.

            “Ah,” John breathed.

            “Well, we’ll be upstairs Mrs. Hudson. Could you start the kettle?” Sherlock asked, already on the stairs.

            “Just this once, I’m not your housekeeper!” the hologram said before it disappeared.

            “She is connected through the entire house but the bedrooms,” Sherlock said as he shoved open the door to the upstairs flat.

            “If you ask, she’ll make tea, order groceries and even clean to some extent. She’s an older model so she can’t actually make food and the idea of getting help makes my skin crawl, so you’re left to your own devices in that.”

            “You could replace her,” John said as he took in the flat. It was a mess of experiments and papers. There was a skull on the mantel and for a moment John thought it could be Victor but when he took in the flat, there were holographic pictures of a man. A man who smiled and laughed and a couple where Sherlock was in them as well, their arms around one another. They flickered in the dark room and added an eerie sense of time that John couldn’t shake. No, the skull wasn’t Victor. Sherlock wanted to remember him as he’d been alive.

            “Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? The country would fall,” Sherlock said, already distracted by something on the kitchen table.

            “The upstairs room is yours. Normally I spend days doing my experiments and work at night. I hope that doesn’t bother you,” he said, his eyes on a beaker that had begun to bubble over.

            “Not at all.” John settled into an armchair. “Don’t you sleep?”  
            Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum.

            “You haven’t asked how much you’ll be paid,” Sherlock said as he settled into his experiment.

            “Don’t care much. I was about a moment away from living on that street corner. The only things I still own are right here. Any money is good enough for me,” John shrugged.

            The kettle began to scream and John rose when it became clear Sherlock wasn’t going to make the tea.

            “Black, two sugars,” Sherlock said without looking up.

            John placed the tea in front of him. “You know I’m not your house keeper either,” he commented.

            Sherlock shrugged.

            “What are you doing, anyway?” he asked when Sherlock didn’t say anything.

            “I’m working on a cure for the gene known as the X genetic. In very few people, GeneCo implants won’t take. They’ve named it the X genetic phenomena. Though I’m not actually on the service of science at GeneCo, they are at a loss so I work on it here with Mycroft’s backing. He is good for something, at least,” Sherlock said.

            “Shouldn’t you be wearing goggles or something?” John said.

            “Yes.”

            “But you aren’t,” John felt compelled to point out.

            “Very good observation.”

            John hid his annoyance and asked, “Shouldn’t you at least change? You’re covered in blood.”

            “Probably.” Sherlock didn’t move from his spot.

            John groaned in frustration. He stomped over to the arm chair and sunk down, nursing his cup of tea. He didn’t know how long he stared at the wall, thinking about the turn of events. He only noticed his surroundings when Sherlock began to play the violin. Looking up at his new flat mate and colleague he couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of the man. For a clear second, he could see why someone would marry him. He could see how someone could love him. Then Sherlock turned and his profile was framed by the dancing light of the moon and there were tears in his eyes. John looked away and drained his tea. He fell asleep to the melancholy tones on the violin and if he heard Sherlock whisper, “Goodnight, love” he pretended it was part of his dream and let himself sink deeper into slumber.

           

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their first job together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about guns, so bear with me here. I'm claiming ignorance and the fact that it's an AU for my lack of knowledge. 
> 
> It's about to get bloody, so if you're not one for blood, just be warned.

John woke with a crick in his neck and a numb right leg. Served him right for sleeping in an arm chair he supposed. He groaned slightly as he stood and Sherlock looked up from where he was perched on the kitchen table. John felt a spurt of annoyance at the limber man who was balanced on his toes, crouched on the table.

            “Ah. You’re up. Good. Could you help me with this?” Sherlock said, wasting no time.

            John stretched. “In a moment. I think my back is in knots. You could’ve woken me.”

            “Why?” Sherlock asked, puzzled.

            “To tell me to go to bed,” John grumbled.

            “You were already asleep, why would I wake you?” Sherlock questioned with a confused expression.

            John shook his head. “No reason.”

            John made a face when he felt his jeans cling to his thighs. His shirt felt stiff with sweat and he sighed. Sherlock took in the movements and smirked.

            “I would let you borrow something of mine but you are vastly shorter than me. Would you like to buy some new clothes? Or you can look through Victor’s closet. He was only slightly taller than you, his things should fit you. Why waste the money when I can just give it to you, right?” Sherlock said.

            “Wouldn’t that be odd?” John asked.

            “Not at all. All of his things are just sitting in the basement flat. Take a shower and I’ll bring it up. You can buy new clothing when you get your paycheck, but for now this should work. He wore his trousers quite tight as well, so they should fit,” Sherlock smirked, his eyes coming to rest on John’s pulse point. John cleared his throat.

            “Right. I’ll just take a quick shower.”

            John found his way to the bathroom while he wondered if Sherlock was interested in him or if he was just naturally alluring. He turned the water to cold and sighed when it began to wash the old sweat and London smog from his skin. Sherlock certainly was alluring, he decided, even without the smirking and innuendo. He still loved his dead husband that was also obvious. John wasn’t even sure which he wanted. Only a day before he’d been resigning himself to the streets and Grave Robber service and then Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture. John rested his head against the wall and concentrated on the cool water painting paths down his skin. He didn’t really need to be worrying yet, he decided.

            Sherlock banged on the door. “Could you come out sometime today? I do need your help with this experiment at some point and we have to go to work in a few hours.”

            “I’ll be right out,” John called. He scrubbed his face quickly and stepped out from under the spray. Wrapping himself in a towel, he padded into the living room where Sherlock had dragged four large boxes into the center of the room.

            Sherlock looked up with a slight smile and John realized he’d changed. He was barefoot and in tight black trousers that could have been made of leather, though he wasn’t sure. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned all the way down, showing off his chest. He had a single gold dog tag that swung from a chain as well as a normal silver tag on a separate chain around his neck. John saw a glint of the letter V on the silver tag before turning to the boxes. It was rather overwhelming.

            Sherlock had a portable video player set up in the corner and for a moment John was distracted by the opera ad.

            “Is that Molly Hooper?” he asked, squinting at the woman flickering on the screen.

            “Yes. New eyes and new vocal cords. She’s set to be singing tomorrow and they want her to sound her best.  It’s funny how one little change can make a huge difference. No doubt you’ll meet her tomorrow,” Sherlock replied. He was busy pulling trousers from one of the boxes and he didn’t catch John’s look of surprise.

            “I’ll meet Molly Hooper?” he said, his voice dripping with disbelief.

            “Of course,” Sherlock spared him a glance, “she’s quite smitten with me and it keeps her happy to see me at the operas. It’s insufferably dull but it has to be endured for the sake of the company. Or so Mycroft tells me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he began to unpack shirts.

            John shook his head and moved past the apparent crush the opera singer and face of GeneCo had on Sherlock (he didn’t doubt it, Sherlock was stunning) and looked at the clothing he was to choose from.

            One thing could be said for Victor Holmes, he had immaculate taste in clothing. If immaculate could be also be used to describe clothing that was unbearably sexy. John looked at the dark jeans, nice trousers and thin button ups that begged to be left open so they could tantalize with flesh. There were jackets that seemed perfectly tailored and even brightly colored pants.  The boxes were filled up with silk and satin. John stared.

            “Choose anything you want. If it’s too big I’ll have it tailored. No point in these things going to waste. I doubt Victor would want them rotting in the cellar,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the boxes.

            “There’s a lot, isn’t there?” John said faintly.

            “Well of course.”

            John waited for there to be more but Sherlock had already turned to the kitchen table where his newest experiment seemed to be curdling based on the smell.

            “Why is that an of course?” John asked when Sherlock began to poke at a glob of something sticky and gray that sat on a tray.

            “Oh, because Victor was a GeneCo spokesman,” he said absently.

            “When?” John asked incredulously. He thought he would remember a Victor Holmes and with all the pictures nothing rang a bell.

            “5 years ago. We were finishing up uni. It was before GeneCo was considered a heavyweight in the genetics world. His job was to talk his way into hospitals. Of course this was when the organ failure had only begun sporadically and in certain places. America was suffering. He spent a lot of time there. With his voice, all he needed was a suit to get in the door. As you know, GeneCo spread quickly in America once the epidemic spread. It took them 2 more years to get that kind of hold here and by then they had already taken the States, the Middle East and Africa. Of course, Victor stopped working when his heart got worse and two years after that job, he died. So I packed up all his things and put them in the cellar but of course he’d need a wide variety,” Sherlock seemed to get colder as he spoke and he ended the sentence with a small shrug as if it didn’t matter. John wasn’t fooled.

            John bent down and chose a black silk shirt and a pair of tight, ash gray jeans. When he checked the tags, he was pleased to find he and Victor wore the same size trousers, though his shirts would be a bit big. “Don’t look,” John said as he dropped the towel.

            Sherlock didn’t acknowledge John but he also didn’t turn around. He flopped instead into the kitchen chair and kept prodding at the thing on the tray while John wiggled his hips into the jeans and pulled the shirt across his chest. It was sweltering and the thick haze of the sky wasn’t helping. He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and left it half unbuttoned. If Sherlock could walk around with his shirt completely open, John could leave a few inches of skin showing. It was too bloody hot to do anything else.

            “Why are the windows open? It’s sweltering out,” John said as he moved over to where Sherlock sat.

            Sherlock turned to answer and found himself at the level of John’s navel. He stopped and slowly let his eyes travel up the smaller man’s chest, his breath blowing across John’s stomach so he could feel the material of the shirt shift against him. They looked at one another with wide eyes before Sherlock cleared his throat and turned back to his experiment.

            “Uh…I don’t have air conditioning, I’m afraid. I usually don’t spend much time here,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

            “Right. Okay. So. What do you need my help with?” John looked at the ceiling for a moment to recall what they were talking about.

            “Just hold this still. I need to test how it reacts to different lights. When I tell you, change the setting,” Sherlock said, handing John a modified torch.

            “That’s it?” John sounded confused.

            “Yes. I have to keep moving, I don’t have enough hands,” Sherlock said.

            John clicked on the torch and waited as Sherlock began to move the glob around. He turned to a tablet with a flickering screen and began to tap out his recordings.

            “Okay, next setting,” Sherlock said.

            Opera music began to float in through the window and John felt an odd sense of contentment. John hadn’t felt content in what seemed like years but standing in Baker Street flicking a torch to different settings while his new flatmate poked at what looked like a blob of fat, he felt a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the heat. He watched Sherlock scowl and scribble down his findings, not even caring that sweat was already making tracks down his spine.

 

            Four hours later found Sherlock throwing random items from his room while John tried to dodge them from the hall.

            “Sherlock! What are you looking for?”

            “My other gun! I have a gun and a sheath you can use. Goes along your hip. I’m not much for guns and I have my knives, but two is better than one especially in the case of a guard,” Sherlock said, his head buried in his closet.

            “I don’t need another gun,” John protested as Sherlock emerged.

            The protests fell from his lips when he saw the gun. It was stunning in its simplicity. The sun had set and the moonlight played across the well cleaned silver casing and its mahogany grip.

            “Is that real silver?” John asked, nearly salivating.

            “No, but it’s made to look like it. Do you want it, or not?” Sherlock said but he smiled. He knew he had hooked John.

            “I think you know the answer to that,” John said dryly.

            Sherlock handed it over with a smirk. John flipped the gun over in his hands, taking in the silver coloring and the monogramed grip. The barrel shimmered in the moonlight and John believed he’d never held anything worth so much money or so beautiful.

            “This is monogramed to you,” he felt the need to point out.

            “Yes. Mummy gave it to me for my birthday when I turned 18. Like I said, I don’t like guns,” Sherlock sounded amused.

            “So you’re just giving it away to an almost stranger?” John was distracted by the gun and his question was said almost flippant.

            “You are hardly a stranger, John. You met my brother. Not many people on the planet get to say that they met Mycroft Holmes alone in a locked room and lived to tell anyone about it. Giving you my gun is almost superfluous if it weren’t for it being literally something that could keep us from harm,” Sherlock replied.

            When John had absorbed what Sherlock said, he turned to see Sherlock pushing his shirt from his shoulders and reaching for another that he’d tossed on the floor. The vast span of his back looked like cool marble besides a few scar marks and John gulped before saying,

            “So giving me this gun is a sign of trust?”

            “The utmost,” Sherlock said. He pulled the shirt on and began to button it up.

            “Well this must be the oddest relationship I’ve ever had,” John said carelessly.

            Sherlock froze and his eyes flew over John’s face. John flushed.

            “John…I’m flattered by your interest, but since Victor I find myself…unable to feel like that,” Sherlock started though he floundered and seemed to be lost on where else to go.

            Besides the crippling embarrassment, John felt that Sherlock was lying through his teeth at least about the attraction. He’d tried to shove John’s pants down only the night before and he’d seemed distracted by John hours before when John stood too close. He still shook his head violently and began to contradict Sherlock as he stuttered.

            “No. No, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean. I just meant we’re friends. Or something like it, that’s all,” John said stiffly.

            Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “Right. Friends.”

            The word sounded foreign coming from his mouth and John smiled his encouragement.

            “We need to be, don’t we? You need to trust me while you work and it is rather hard to trust a stranger. Especially when you just handed him a second gun,” John said.

            “I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged, a flush creeping up his neck. It was enticing.

            John stood frozen to the spot. The hologram behind Sherlock seemed to smile right at John. He was very young and he seemed to be beaming in the picture. John wondered what it was like to feel that happy. Sherlock was standing in front of him but the hologram was looking at John. John wondered what that meant, if it meant anything at all. John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock who seemed to be studying the floor with supreme concentration.

            “Sherlock?”  John prompted.

            “Right. Sorry. Lost in thought. We have to get going. Got to stop at headquarters and our first job is across town. It’s going to be a long night,” Sherlock shook himself. He pulled a piece of folded paper from his pocket and scanned it. He sighed.

            “I think I will need my uniform for tonight,” he sounded put out by the knowledge but before John could speak, he had swept into his bedroom and shut the door.

            John was lounging half out the window, his shirt unbuttoned partly down his chest so the hot breeze could at least give him a semblance of cooling his skin when Sherlock opened the door. John turned to ask Sherlock about the opera only to feel the words die in his mouth. Sherlock was in his repo uniform and if he was attractive before, he was positively sinful in the all black leather of a repo agent.

            “It isn’t actually leather, if you care,” Sherlock said as if John had spoken out loud, “it’s a hybrid fabric. Blood slips off. Doesn’t stain at all.”

            The suit was all black with tight trousers fitted to Sherlock’s body and a matching shirt in the same material. It was closed up his throat and the collar of the jacket that accompanied it had a high collar in the back so it framed his face. The knee high boots were laced tight and when Sherlock strode toward John pulling his gloves on, John half turned his body so the sudden heat that shot to his groin wouldn’t be seen.

            “It’s annoyingly hot in this, but I’d rather not ruin yet another good shirt doing this bloody job. Here, put this on,” Sherlock tossed John a hospital mask that seemed to be made of the same material as his outfit. John fit it around his neck so it could be lifted to his face when it was necessary. Sherlock put his own around his neck and gave John a brief humorless smile.

            “Well, let’s be off. Mrs. Hudson, have tea for when we’re home,” Sherlock called.

            “I’m not your house keeper,” the home interface called back but John didn’t doubt that the kettle would be on when they got back.

            The streets of London weren’t any brighter than they had been the night before, but hope could be a great motivator to see the world in a brighter fashion. John walked beside Sherlock, one gun strapped to his hip and the other tucked inside his shirt.

            “You know, I always thought you were supposed to be inconspicuous,” John said as he studied Sherlock’s long stride.

            “Not worth it. Anyone who sees me in this uniform runs. Whether it be the one I’m going after or not, they all run. No point in hiding in back alleys like the rest of the scum. No, I don’t do this to be liked. I don’t care about being cunning unless it serves me. I am not a face of GeneCo, though if Mycroft had his way I’d be on Molly Hooper’s arm every week, but as it is, I don’t need to be liked. I am not the public image. If people see me in the streets and run, that’s fine. And when it matters, no one knows my face,” Sherlock replied coolly.

            They were reaching the center of London and as always, people were scarce. The opera music echoed over the city and John asked a question he’d been wondering about for years.

            “Why opera?”

            Sherlock chuckled. “Do you want the short answer or the long one?”

            “Short,” John said.

            “Because before this, the Queen liked opera,” Sherlock replied.

            John gave him a curious glance but Sherlock only smirked. “You asked for the short answer,” he said.

            “Dick,” John chuckled.

            He was rewarded by a small smile.

            They walked the rest of the way in silence and when they reached GeneCo, Sherlock paused in front of the door. John got the sense he was giving John time to collect himself. When John gave a curt nod, Sherlock pushed open the doors.

            Lestrade was waiting for them.

            “Ah, Sherlock. I half expected I’d be running out after you to give you these. And look, you’re even in uniform,” he said with a friendly smile.

            “No Anthea tonight?” Sherlock asked not as pleasantly.

            “No…no she was a bit put off by…well…”Lestrade couldn’t seem to find the right word and he trailed off.

            “She doesn’t like hearing the word no,” Sherlock translated.

            John flushed when he caught up to the conversation. He felt the need to explain that he wasn’t with Sherlock like that, but the two men in front of him had already moved past it.

            “I don’t think she hears it very often,” Lestrade replied.

            “No. Not since you, I’d say,” Sherlock smirked.

            Lestrade flushed. “Listen, about me and your brother-“

            “Oh, I don’t care. I do have to get on the streets soon. I have one leftover from last night plus the new ones for the week if I can get them all finished. A lot are going to be a bloody mess and while I know many of your lesser agents simply cut and rip, I do like to make sure the merchandise isn’t ruined in transit,” Sherlock held out his hand for the tags.

            Lestrade let them drop on their chains and Sherlock pulled his usual tag from inside his shirt, lifting it from his neck. The flash of silver from a second chain caught John’s eye but he watched Lestrade in that moment instead of Sherlock. Lestrade seemed to stiffen and he looked away while Sherlock dropped his old tag into his palm and stretched out his hand for his new one.

            “Nice piece,” Lestrade said, nodding to the gun Sherlock had given John that was strapped to his side.

            “It’s beautiful,” John agreed.

            He took off his own tag as Lestrade handed him the new one. Sherlock had already put his on and tucked it in next to the silver one.

            “Oi, before you go Sally wanted to see you, Sherlock,” Lestrade said abruptly, “I nearly forgot.”

            “Right. I’ll be back,” he said with a quick look at John.

            He swept away leaving John to stand with Lestrade.

            John and Lestrade took a long and awkward moment to size each other up. John in Victor’s old clothing and Lestrade in slightly loose work trousers and a button up with a tie. When they both had made up their minds, their eyes met.

            Lestrade smiled. “I wondered what kind of man could possibly get Sherlock’s attention and make Mycroft so annoyed in one night. I’m surprised I thought of anything different. How old are you?”

            “25,” John said.

            “Ah. Sherlock’s age. You look younger, but then again, he looks older, doesn’t he?” Lestrade mused without malice.

            “I’ve heard that happens when someone you love dies,” John said mildly.

            Lestrade glanced at the floor with a sad smile. “Yes, I’d wondered if you knew. Of course, if you live with him now you have to know. But I wondered if he told you. You’re wearing Victor’s clothing. I wondered…”

            “Of course I told John. Trust has to go all ways, Lestrade,” Sherlock said loudly as he came back to them.

            “I didn’t know you even knew the word trust,” Lestrade said without malice but the words couldn’t be mistaken for anything less than a jab.

            John took a menacing step forward at that but Sherlock grabbed his arm and held him in place.

            “I was married once, Lestrade, in case you’ve forgotten. Trust is an integral part of that, isn’t it? And since when do you know anything about my life other than what my brother tells you?”  Sherlock snapped.

            John relaxed beside Sherlock when he realized Sherlock could handle himself. Lestrade frowned.

            “I only meant-“

            “I know what you meant. Come on John, time is ticking and we have much to do tonight.”

On John’s first job he realized he wasn’t just a guard, he was an assistant. The first man they caught was large. He was almost oversized in all of his parts and John stared in terror at the cornered man. Sherlock only looked down at his list which was now encased in plastic.

            “Ah. Corneas. If you stay really still, this won’t be so bad,” he said, snapping his mask over his face. John placed his own mask over his face and turned to watch the door.

            He heard rather than saw the man fall and when he looked over his shoulder, Sherlock was crouched, knives on his fingers and blood slipping from the gloves. He’d cut the man’s Achilles tendons. The man sobbed brokenly.

            “I’ll pay,” he begged, “I promise. I will. Please.”

            John felt sick. Sherlock only shook his head. “Mr…Smith, this says. I’m sorry to inform you that it is too late for that. I am only doing my job and I regret to say promises of payment mean nothing to me. Now, lie back and stay still. It will be over soon. You’ll survive this at least.”

            “I’ve paid off my heart. My skin. Everything else,” the man whimpered.

            “Yes, but you haven’t paid off those baby blues,” Sherlock drawled. John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock enjoyed his job. He turned to watch the door once more.

            “John?” Sherlock said and John turned back to him.

            “Cold you hold down his arm for me?” he asked.

            “Sherlock, I’m half his size,” John argued.

            “Yes, but I need some way to ensure I don’t get a fist in the head,” Sherlock said patiently.

            John let out a noisy sigh to show his displeasure but he walked over deliberately and knelt on one of the man’s thick arms as Sherlock knelt on the other.

            “If you’re squeamish you might not want to watch,” Sherlock said. The man began to cry.  

            “I was a doctor, Sherlock,” John sighed.

            Sherlock shrugged. “Watch the door. He didn’t have friends with him last time, but he might now. We never know.”

            John kept his eyes on the door as Sherlock stuck a scalpel into the man’s eye socket. John looked over amidst the screaming and saw Sherlock’s eyes, bright with concentration, as he yanked a bloody eyeball from the right side.  The man was whimpering and John thought he might be in shock.

            “Right. Switch with me,” Sherlock said, standing.

            The man twitched. John pushed himself up and switched sides. He thought he might not need to hold the man down anymore, but it was better to be safe.

            “Gross, Sherlock I’m kneeling in blood,” he complained before he realized what he was saying.

            He was kneeling on a man’s arm while his new friend hacked the man’s eyes out and he was complaining about blood on his new trousers.

            “Job hazard. If you liked those trousers so much you should have changed,” Sherlock said absently.

            “I didn’t know I’d be participating,” John snapped back only to watch Sherlock jerk the left eye out of the man’s head. He grimaced. The man didn’t make a sound. John checked his pulse. He was very much alive, just in shock.

            “Assume all possibilities,” Sherlock murmured as he shoved the eyes into a bag. He sorted through the tags on the man’s neck and ripped the one for his eyes off.

            “He’s in shock, Sherlock,” John said.

            Sherlock caught his eyes as he tucked the bag into his jacket. “You would be too if someone ripped your eyes out without Zydrate,” Sherlock replied.

            “Shouldn’t we do something?”

            “Yes. But as you’ve heard from me and from my brother as well, we don’t have time and I think we’d both rather not anger the boss, now would we?”

            John let the subject drop. “What’s next.”

            Sherlock wiped the blood from his list and smirked at what he read. “This could be dangerous.”

            “Why?” John asked, his fingers ghosting over the gun on his side.

            “Heart removal,” Sherlock said, “and it’s one of our big shots. Mycroft must have liked you. This is like Christmas.”

            “A heart removal is like Christmas?” John asked, his skepticism showing on his face.

            “On a normal day, no but today? Oh yes. Come on,” Sherlock yanked John from the room and began to explain as they hit the street.

            “Do you remember that big banker Sebastian Wilkes? The one who single handedly took over the nationwide coverage almost overnight?” Sherlock asked with excitement.

            “Yes,” John confirmed.

            “Well, we’re going for him. He’s been slowly going bankrupt but to keep up appearances has been going under the knife as much as he can. He tried to buy stock of GeneCo but as you know, GeneCo is a private company and can’t be traded. In short, he’s a wanker and Mycroft suspected for months that he was stealing money from his banks to pay for his surgeries. It looks like he’s had one too many. He either can no longer find the money, or, more likely, Mycroft froze his assets to get him out of the way. His kidney is on the tentative list as well so I might as well grab it while I’m here. Consolation prize, right?” Sherlock beamed.

            John couldn’t help but laugh. Sherlock looked startled.

            “You’re brilliant,” John said.

            “Really?” Sherlock said in disbelief.

            “Yeah. Might as well take his kidney. As if it’s just pick pocketing. Might as well take his watch because I’m already here,” John chortled.

            Sherlock looked perplexed but pleased. John bumped his shoulder with his own. It was an intimate gesture and Sherlock faltered but John smiled up at him, his mask pulled down so he could breathe better and Sherlock’s eyes crinkled. John figured he was smiling as well.

            “Sebastian is not a nice man and he’s done some terrible things to people without being paid for it,” Sherlock continued. “And I believe this will be fun.”

            If John didn’t know any better, he’d think Sherlock was smiling widely. As it was, he feigned innocence and smirked at the sidewalk.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to get their first heart. It is messy, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, here is some violence! As always, I can't seem to avoid little bits of fluff and big bits of angst. I have a feeling this is going to turn into a much longer work and with two other fics in progress, juggling is getting tough. This is my first priority right now though! So stick with me!
> 
> not beta'd or brit picked. All mistakes are my own.

Sebastian Wilkes lived in a mansion. John stared up at it and felt overwhelmed.  It had a wire fence with sharp barbs and a marble walkway. There was a balcony. Sherlock wasn’t as impressed. He simply slipped around the back of the house and studied the porch before leaping up and catching the ledge.

            “Um,” John said, looking up at Sherlock.

            Sherlock’s eyes crinkled over his mask and he leaned over the ledge while reaching his arm out. John jumped and caught Sherlock’s hand. John marveled at Sherlock’s strength when Sherlock pulled him up until he could grab ahold of the ledge to pull himself onto the ground.

            “This is the most ridiculous night I’ve ever had,” John panted.

            Sherlock snickered as he got up. “And it hasn’t even really started yet,” he replied.

            “So you do this every night?” John asked, brushing his pants off in a futile attempt to make them cleaner.

            “Mostly. I get a weekly list. If I finish them all early, I get a few nights off. Usually, I do. I’m one of the fastest workers. There is also a bonus that goes into my account if I’m done by Wednesday,” Sherlock said. He studied the house through the glass door and nodded to himself.

            “Right. He’ll be in the bedroom of course. We’re at the study. Let’s go.”

            “Isn’t it locked?” John asked.

            Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot. “Yes. But I can break the glass. Or you can. That gun should be heavy enough, though usually I use my elbow,” he said slowly.

            “Right. You rip out people’s hearts. Breaking and entering really isn’t that bad, is it?” John said, scratching his head.

            Sherlock laughed under his breath. “No, John, it really isn’t.”

            He looked over at John and motioned for him to step back. Lifting his arm, he slammed his right elbow into the glass. It shattered loudly and John blinked in surprise at Sherlock’s strength once more.

            “Do you work out or something?” John asked without thought.

            “Is this really the time?” Sherlock asked, amused.

            “Suppose not,” John shrugged.

            When Sherlock stepped through the hole in the glass an alarm began to ring and he rolled his eyes.

            “Sebastian, I’m not in the mood for this,” he called.

            John stepped through the glass uncomfortably and waited. It wasn’t long until a well-dressed man stepped into the room.

            “Sherlock Holmes! I haven’t seen you since uni! I suppose you had to break the glass, didn’t you? I just had that put in,” the man said with a false smile. John didn’t miss that he had a com watch, used to easily call others and see GeneCo broadcasts. He had shut off the alarm, but he could call for guards in seconds. Sherlock hadn’t been joking when he’d said danger.  John put his hand on his hip so it was closer to the gun.

            “Sebastian, this is John Watson. My…friend,” Sherlock said. John thought it was an overly formal introduction considering Sherlock was there to rip he man’s heart out.

            “Friend?” Sebastian raised his eyebrow with a curl of his lip. John didn’t like how Sebastian said the word. As if Sherlock didn’t have friends, as if it was dirty.  John leaned forward with his own cruel smile.

            “Flat mate and friend, actually,” John said sharply. He didn’t care if there was an implication in the words.

            Sebastian took in the younger man and came to the same assumption Sherlock had come to. John Watson was a dangerous man hiding in a polite shell. He took a step back. Sherlock took a step forward.

            “You must know why I’m here,” he said.

            “Yes. Your brother didn’t even warn me. Chivalry really is dead, isn’t it? And this must be terribly fun for you, I must say,” Sebastian didn’t seem too concerned and John worried he might have more up his sleeve.

            Sherlock seemed to think so if his twitching fingers were any indication. His eyes swept the room taking in everything and cataloguing it to know what could be used against them before settling back on Sebastian.

            “Oh I wouldn’t say fun,” Sherlock said, moving closer to Sebastian.

            “I would,” John offered, his annoyance level rising as Sebastian put a hand on Sherlock’s chest in an all too familiar manner.

            “Sherlock does attract the most interesting people,” Sebastian purred.

            John wondered when the moment had changed from fear to sexual advances. He scowled and Sherlock laughed roughly, pushing Sebastian back against the door. None of them missed Sebastian’s breath hitch.

            “Relax Seb, I’m not going to screw you. I’m just going to take your heart,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

            “Oh now, Sherlock. We have a past. Do you really think you can rip open my chest and take my heart and feel nothing?” Sebastian said quickly.

            John inched closer and smiled to himself in a twisted manner. The man was showing his fear. That was a good sign for them.

            “Yes,” Sherlock said simply. “Now, Sebastian Wilkes, I am here to take your heart. You can beg and plead but I assure you, I’ve heard it all so how about you just lie down and let me get this over with. I have more jobs tonight.”

            Sebastian laughed, “Good old Sherlock. I should have known this is where you’d end up. Fucking that Victor over me, coming down to the common room fresh from a shag. As if we didn’t know. He played you for the money of course, but you were such a simpering idiot.”

            When Sebastian slammed back against the wall so hard he couldn’t breathe, he was surprised to see it was John who had put him there. Sherlock blinked in surprise as well.

            “You will shut the fuck up, lie down and let us take your fucking heart or I swear to god I will make you pay,” he said through gritted teeth.

            Sherlock’s eyes widened in mild surprise and Sebastian wheezed out a laugh.

            “Make me pay? Worse than you will by taking my heart?”

            John smiled and it was terrifying.

            “Sherlock, didn’t you say you could get the kidney, too?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Sebastian’s. Sebastian turned white. His fingers fumbled on his com device but Sherlock swiftly pulled it from his wrist with a jovial smile.

            “Oh yes. Consolation prize. Wonderful. This is just getting interesting,” he replied with a glint in his eye.

            Sebastian began to beg.

            “Sherlock. Sherlock please. I can pay. I didn’t mean those things. I didn’t. You know me.”

            Sherlock knelt and produced his finger knives from inside his uniform. “I’m going to cut the tendons in your legs so you can’t run from us. No hard feelings, this is only my job,” he said coldly, all business once more.

            “I loved you once,” Sebastian said quickly. John froze.

            Sherlock looked up and something in his eyes wasn’t playing anymore. John watched as he stood and leaned in close to Sebastian.

            “You never loved anything, least of all me,” he spoke evenly and that made it even more terrifying, “you have only ever cared for yourself and you don’t mind how many people you hurt to get your way. Don’t forget, my brother is Mycroft Holmes and I might not know everything but when it comes to you, Sebastian, I can see it all. You think I don’t know about the blood on your hands? My skin may be stained and tainted but at least I fought to have a good life. I know about them all. Every woman and child you slaughtered for the sake of money. Mycroft didn’t give me this job to hurt me; he gave it to me because I would enjoy it.”

            All the color rushed from Sebastian’s face as Sherlock knelt once more and swiftly flicked his wrist, cutting both legs at the same time. Sebastian fell forward with a loud cry and John caught him automatically, putting him on the floor none to gently. Sebastian was crying, his words hiccupping in his chest.

            “I did what I had to do,” Sebastian whispered, his eyes defiant. Sherlock slipped his knives under Sebastian’s knees and sliced. Sebastian wouldn’t be trying to escape any time soon. The man howled. John promptly knelt on his left arm while Sherlock moved to his right. Sebastian’s fingers clenched and the whites of his eyes seemed to bulge.

            “Right. We need to move quickly. The heart is supposed to still be pumping when it comes out,” he said quickly.

            “Really?” John asked in surprise.

            “Yes, the longer it is alive, the better the pay. Not sure why,” Sherlock said, ripping open Sebastian’s expensive shirt and displaying his chest.

            “So…someone paid me! Paid me to do…what I did! Stopped paying…when…when I couldn’t help to…give them…GeneCo,” Sebastian screamed. John worried about family members or neighbors hearing but Sherlock turned his attention to Sebastian.

            “Paid you to do what you did? To murder innocent people? Who?” The scalpel was placed on Sebastian’s chest but Sherlock didn’t move.

            “So…someone you…know,” Sebastian gasped.

            “Sherlock,” John said worriedly. Sebastian was looking pale. Sherlock had nicked an artery when he’d cut under his legs. He would die soon if they didn’t patch it up.

            “You start, John,” Sherlock said, handing over the scalpel. John looked at it blankly.

            He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock leaned in close to Sebastian and John decided to cut his losses. Looking at the scum who could call himself a man lying beneath him, he couldn’t find it in him to feel sorry for him. If what Sherlock had mentioned was true, Sebastian Wilkes was not a good person and he had done a lot more damage than good. John made the first deep cut.

            “He’s going to pass out very soon, Sherlock,” he warned.

            Sebastian was screaming bloody murder but Sherlock only nodded and leaned closer to the dying man. John snapped on his mask and began to cut with intent.

            “Who?” Sherlock demanded.

            Sebastian fixed him with dazed eyes and smiled. “I was…jealous…you know. Never…loved….anything. A…anything at…all. Not like…he…love…loved you… Give…give him…hell for me,” he managed.

            “Sherlock, I have to break the ribs now, he’s going to pass out from pain and blood loss,” John warned.

            Sherlock sat back on his heels and seemed to be thinking.

            “Sherlock!” John shouted. Sebastian had stopped screaming. He’d stopped struggling. They had very little time if they wanted to reach a still pumping heart. Sherlock’s head snapped up and he said, “Right. Later. Okay, ribs.”

            He reached into the now open chest of a man he’d once known and wrapped his hand around a delicate bone. With a hard yank, he broke the bone off in his hand. Sebastian’s body reared off the floor and John stared at the amount of blood. At the beating heart inside its bone cage. And at the man who was methodically ridding the body of its defenses.

            “John, I need you to clear the veins away, now,” Sherlock said when he was done and there was a hole big enough for hands. There was blood on Sherlock’s arms, splattered on his face and in his hair. John thought he must smell of blood and death. The night before he’d smelled of ash and London but now, now he would smell of death. In a world of destruction, Sherlock was the grim reaper and John had become his accomplice. He closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by it all.

            “John!” Sherlock barked and John’s eyes flew open.

            “This is not the time to have an identity crisis. Move the veins and don’t damage the heart.”

            John nodded. He was kneeling in blood, so much blood. There were three broken ribs lying on the floor beside Sherlock and when he looked up, he saw Sherlock had a bag open, his eyes bright and alive, such a contrast to the man in front of them whose heart was slowing down with each moment. It was brutal. It was surreal. It was enough to remind John that he was alive.

He removed the veins quickly, blood staining his skin. Sherlock shoved his hands away impatiently once he was done.

            “You might not want to watch this part,” he commented but didn’t give John time to look away. He yanked. Even as it rose from Sebastian’s chest the heart was still working feebly, trying to keep itself alive but Sherlock was brutal and quick. With a single jerk, Sebastian’s body rose to its final crescendo and then crashed to the floor. After Sherlock slipped the heart into the bag, he leaned over and read through the tags on the man’s neck. Removing the one for the heart, he added it to the bag and sealed it. His bloody fingers left smudges on the platinum tags.

            They both stared at the body of a man who only minutes before had been speaking to them. John turned away quickly, lifted his mask and threw up, his bile mixing with the blood. Sherlock’s face seemed to wrinkle.

            “Disgusting,” he said, standing. John stood with him and lowered the bloody mask back over his mouth with a shrug. He swayed on his feet and Sherlock caught him.

            “Just go sit. There’s no one else in this house and I disabled the com. All I need to get is the kidney, then we can go,” Sherlock said almost gently.

            John collapsed into the chair Sebastian had kept in front of his desk. He stared at the body as Sherlock flipped it over. John closed his eyes when Sherlock lifted the shirt and only looked back when he heard the sound of skin being pulled up. He watched. Sherlock moved almost gently. John had seen him play the violin the night before and it had been stunning. Even in this capacity, he was graceful and John felt something in his chest swell. Sherlock removed the kidney with care and placed it in the bag. For a moment, he stayed kneeling beside the body with a look John couldn’t decipher in his eyes. Finally, he stood and looked to John. There was surprise in his face when he realized John had been watching, but he lifted his mask and John saw a tired smile.

            “It isn’t all it seemed it would be, is it?” he asked.

            John didn’t know what Sherlock was asking him about. Life as a repo agent or life itself, so he simply nodded.  Either way, he was right.

            “I’m sorry about the blood. I did like that shirt. We could probably save the jeans,” he said, his voice more normal.

            John was about to wave the offer off when he remembered the jeans had belonged to Victor before. “If you’d like,” he said softly.

            Sherlock smiled gratefully. “Perhaps. Or we could toss them in the bin. Blood does leave a smell on the things it touches and I’d rather it didn’t…” he trailed off with a frown.

            “Well, let’s be off,” he said, shaking his head and running bloody fingers through his hair. John cringed but followed as Sherlock went back to the deck. He jumped from the balcony ledge with ease and landed on the ground. John faltered.

            “Come along, John. The sooner we get these three in, the sooner we can go home,” Sherlock called up quietly.

            “We’re going home? So soon?” John asked with surprise.

            Sherlock smiled slightly. “Yes. I think we’ve both had quite a night. Come on. Jump, I’ll catch you.”

            John blinked. Sherlock was smiling up at him somewhat ruefully and there was impatience in his face but John didn’t doubt him for a moment. John Watson who had never trusted anyone, even his own family, trusted this man to catch him. He shook his head and decided not to examine the thought too closely.

            “Sometime tonight would be nice,” Sherlock said dryly.

            In a world of ash and blood, John had found something special. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it was there. He braced his legs and jumped.

            Sherlock felt John slam into him and he stumbled from the impact, falling backward onto the dead grass of the lawn. John landed on top of him.

            “Well, at least I broke your fall,” he commented when he got his breath back and had lifted his mask to get air.

            “Are you alright?” John asked anxiously, scrambling back to his knees.

            “I’m fine. A fall isn’t going to kill me,” Sherlock brushed off the concern.

            John pushed back Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock froze. He wanted to ignore the obvious attraction he had to John Watson. He didn’t want to want anyone. He hadn’t since Victor had died. He’d done what he had to do to survive and even that effort was minimal, throwing himself into work and science with the vague notion that he should but nothing had made him feel like he should survive. Like something needed him. Like he would thrive. John Watson, however, was giving him that feeling. Sherlock had always known what he wanted the moment he saw it. He’d worked out all the roads of which to get it and of what use it would have to him. Victor had been dazzled when Sherlock had thrown all he’d had at the man. There had never been any doubt that Victor would love him but with John there was something else. John was rude when necessary but polite in all other cases. He didn’t trust anyone but three times since they’d met he’d tensed when people had made vague threats or rude comments to Sherlock. He’d threatened to rip Sebastian’s kidney out first to make him suffer not for the things he’d done, John didn’t know about those things, but for what he’d said to Sherlock.

            John Watson was a mystery and that alone intrigued Sherlock but there was more. John was attractive. Not just handsome but dangerously beautiful in the way of someone who didn’t see it and moved about his life oblivious. It wasn’t just his body. It was the way he held himself and the looks that crossed his face as he thought. Sherlock thought he had never seen anyone so uniquely beautiful before, not even Victor. Putting them side by side would be an idiot’s mistake and he didn’t bother with those. They were different men in different times of his life but he was appalled by the feelings that rose in him when John smiled at him or laughed. John had held a torch for him, flicking its settings, for over an hour without complaint. He’d called Sherlock brilliant when Sherlock had made a kidney into an extra prize to be taken. He delighted in Sherlock’s stories and knew when to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t pester Sherlock about Victor or his brother or the choices he’d made. He accepted them and moved on. Sherlock found he trusted John with his life and that he had the moment he’d met him, which was a curious occurrence in a man who didn’t like or trust anyone as a general rule. He trusted John even more sitting in the grass with John’s fingers in his curls and his eyes concerned. His heart leapt but he kept his gaze steady.

            “You have a cut here, when did that happen?” John murmured.

            Sherlock wiggled his fingers and said, “Probably when I had my knives on me. I forget to take them off.”

            John huffed out a laugh. “You’re an idiot.” He wiped the blood from the cut and seemed satisfied. He swiped his dirty fingers on the ruined jeans he wore with efficiency.

            “I am brilliant,” Sherlock said regally.

            “A brilliant bloody idiot,” John replied with obvious affection. Sherlock blinked as John stood and offered Sherlock his hand.

            “I’m covered in blood,” he said dumbly.

            “I just had my hands in a man’s chest ripping his veins, I think I can handle blood,” John retorted.

            Sherlock flushed and took the outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

            “At least we’re right down the street from the company. I don’t think I could take a long trek there and back,” John said.

            “Yes, it can be tiresome,” Sherlock agreed.

            They began to walk, Sherlock adjusting his gate so the smaller man could keep up.

            “Are all the nights like this?” John asked after a while.

            “No, not all of them. Some of them, but not all. Most of the time we’re given people we don’t know. Sebastian was just a special case. Mycroft knows how much I despise him for what he did,” Sherlock answered.

            “What did he do?” John asked almost immediately.

            “He ran a study a year back on the effects of GeneCo manufacturing in pregnant women. Young women. He paid them, of course but the study was barbaric and most of them never got to use that money.  The truth didn’t come out to the company for months and by the time it did, it was too late. Not only where they injecting Zydrate straight into the fetus, they were pulling babies out too early and in some cases, they gave the mother’s faulty organs so they died when giving birth. It resulted in the death of 98% of those who participated. Sebastian had always dabbled in science, it’s how we knew each other, but he’d gone on to work with money. When he’d offered up the study, Mycroft wanted to say no but he was talked into it by the board. Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty were placed on the watch team. When they realized what was happening, they pulled it and GeneCo covered it up, but it was too late for those young women and their children,” Sherlock said stoically.

            John swallowed hard. “Oh,” was all he could manage.

            “That’s why I don’t feel at all terrible for what I just did,” Sherlock said stiffly.  He seemed to think John would disagree.

            “No. I don’t either,” John agreed slowly.

            They could see GeneCo shining down the street and Sherlock turned to John.

            “Are you alright?” he asked.

            “Yes,” John replied resolutely.

            “You just killed a man,” Sherlock said. The silent, _with me_ an unspoken whisper.

            “Well he wasn’t a very nice man,” John said.

            “No, no he wasn’t,” Sherlock conceded after a moment and John smiled faintly.

            “Come on. Let’s get this over with, I’m starving,” he said. He began to walk once more and he hid his smile when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps follow.

            When they reached the door, John turned to Sherlock. “You know, you’ve made my life a whole lot more interesting. Makes me wonder, what will happen in a month?”

            He grinned and Sherlock responded with his own. “I don’t know but I think we can agree it could be dangerous.”

            “Oh, all the best futures are,” John laughed, yanking open the doors and strolling, blood covered and smiling, into the blinding white of the GeneCo lobby. He’d never felt better.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I adore comments so pretty please, leave whatever you thought at the end! Thanks again for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attend the opera. Irene and Molly are introduced. Moriarty is creepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some early smut! yay! No intense smut yet, but still. We're getting there. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

Two months went by quickly and John found himself settled in the role of Sherlock’s friend and guard. Nightly, they went to work and usually trudged up the stairs of Baker Street at the early hours of the morning. John no longer winced when Sherlock ruthlessly cut the tendons of his victim’s legs and he didn’t bat an eye when blood spatter hit his shirt. He’d begun to wear the same three shirts on work nights and had gone, on Sherlock’s insistence, to GeneCo’s dressing department to get his own specially made gloves and mask as well as a jacket so there would be minimal blood on his clothing. He had fallen into an easy pattern with Sherlock and had since picked through Victor’s clothes and found the things he liked best.

            Oddly enough, everything he chose were things Victor hadn’t liked much.

            “Victor hated that shirt, he said it itched,” Sherlock said absently when John put on a shirt that he’d buried to the bottom of the box. It was made of plain cotton but it was short sleeved and if he left it open, the hot air of the city blew enough to cool the sweat.

            “Well it doesn’t,” John said dismissively.

            Sherlock smirked, “I know.”

            John flushed but kept on reading the paper. He was getting used to Sherlock’s comments that seemed flippantly sexual and he’d learned to ignore them.

            “Why do you read that junk?” Sherlock asked as he walked past. He was working on the genetic problem the science department still had and his question was incredulous.

            “Because the opera schedule is in here and I’d like to know when you’re going to drag me to a function so I’ll know when not to dress like a body guard,” John replied.

            “You don’t dress like a body guard,” Sherlock scowled, “and besides, I liked seeing Mycroft’s face when he saw the blood spatter on your trousers.”

            John chuckled. “That was rather funny, wasn’t it?”

            “There’s an opera tonight. We are expected to attend,” Sherlock said formally.

            John snorted. “Good thing we finished this week early, huh?”

            “Mycroft insinuated that he had something to talk with us about,” Sherlock told him and John shrugged.

            “Alright. So my good trousers then?”

            Sherlock laughed and John smiled at the sound. Outside on the billboards, Molly Hooper announced the opera and Irene Adler spoke crisply about GeneCo’s newest creation, camera eyes that worked like a com device.

 

            Mycroft was not having the best of days. The company reports were impeccable and across the globe GeneCo was doing well, but somewhere in the intricate little details, something was off. He couldn’t figure out what it was. Someone in the company was working the numbers. Somewhere, repossessions were off and the power seemed to be shifting. Someone was trying to take over GeneCo and topple Mycroft. Mycroft was not the type of person to allow it to continue, but he couldn’t seem to find who it was.

            “You asked to see me, sir?” Irene Adler stood in front of him and he looked up.

            “Yes, right. I need you to take over the ceremonies tonight. Present Ms. Hooper, answer the questions about the new product and as always, deflect the repo accusations. We don’t need another riot,” he said tiredly.

            “What about Sherlock, sir?” Irene asked.

            “When he shows up, send him up to see me. He doesn’t need to stay for the show,” Mycroft replied.

            “You aren’t coming to the show?” Irene seemed worried.

            “Not tonight. There’s too much to do,” Mycroft sighed.

            “Right. Is that all, then?” she asked.

            “Yes, you may go. Oh, and tell Jim not to wear those gloves to the show. We had a media storm about that last time,” Mycroft said as she turned to go.

            “I’ll advise it, sir,” she said smartly.

            Mycroft Holmes let out a loud sigh when she was gone and began to once more pour over the papers that warned him of the treason.

 

            Irene Adler didn’t go straight to Jim Moriarty but instead went to Molly Hooper. It was the obvious choice since she’d left Molly tied up in her bed.

            “Ah, you’ve returned,” Molly said warmly.

            Irene shrugged off the leather jacket she’d worn to speak with Mycroft and Molly sucked in a breath at the black corset covered in silver straps. Irene was tall and lithe and her long legs in black stockings and silver heels made her look nearly delectable. Molly Hooper, the voice and face of GeneCo, named the Queen by the media, was tied naked to the bedpost and she didn’t regret it at all. There was something to be said for seeing Irene Adler in action.

            “If only those papers could see you now. The sweetheart Queen, the nightingale. If only they knew how you looked debauched,” Irene purred.

            Molly smiled. Her dark brunette hair fell in kinked waves to her shoulders and her eyes had darkened with her desire.

            “Oh, I believe that is only for you,” she smiled.

            “Is it? What about that dashing Sherlock Holmes?” Irene picked up her whip and idly tapped it on her leg.

            Molly stared at it greedily. She licked her lips and Irene smiled slowly and with a predatory edge.

            “Just a crush,” she said breathlessly when Irene ran the whip lightly over Molly’s exposed stomach.

            “Oh yes,” Irene agreed, “just a school girl crush.” The whip stung Molly’s ankle and she whimpered.

            “I’ll be escorting you tonight,” Irene told Molly as she whipped lightly along Molly’s skin. Molly gasped.

            “You’ll be on my arm. The Queen on the arm of the heiress. Appropriate, isn’t it?” she purred.

            “Yes,” Molly gasped, “oh yes.”

            Irene smiled. “Have you been wicked, your highness?”

            Molly stared at her with eyes hazy in desire. “Yes, Ms. Adler,” she said.

            Irene lifted the whip and with a wicked grin, lashed Molly’s pale stomach.

Jim Moriarty wore gloves made from the skins of those he repossessed. He’d heard of a vulgar American man wearing the faces of those he attacked and though the idea held no merit to him, he did need a good pair of gloves and what was better than human skin? He had a large collection of skin gloves, most that looked exactly like they had on the hands of their original owners. He was picky about the skin. It had to be the person’s original skin, nothing manufactured, and it couldn’t have scars unless they were artful. He loved his gloves. Before GeneCo, that would have made him a psychopath. After GeneCo, it made him inventive and fit to run a company in the future (the near future, if his plans worked out). Life had certainly gotten better for him when the organ failure began. He chose his favorite gloves, made from the skin of a young man who had died begging for his mother and who had a tattoo that boasted “truth” on his palm, and slipped them on. He studied them under the mellow light of his flat bathroom. They were certainly fit for the opera. He smiled.

 

            John had decided he didn’t like the opera. He didn’t like the music, he despised the people and the event just seemed ridiculous in every way. He only went because Sherlock asked him to and even that couldn’t put him in a better mood. Sherlock pulled on his favored black gloves and fixed his jacket.

            “It’s too bloody hot,’ John mumbled as he shrugged on Victor’s jacket that had since been tailored to fit him. Sherlock ran his hand down John’s back, smoothing the creases.   
            “You really should hang this up so it doesn’t crease. There’s air conditioning there, you know that,” he said.

            “Yes, but with all of high society London there, it’s still too bloody hot. Whoever said gentlemen need to wear jackets was a sadist,” John said with feeling.

            “I agree,” Sherlock said on a laugh, “but sadly, we have to adhere to the dress code.”

            “How come the dress code allows that smug bastard to wear his human gloves, but I can’t take of my bloody jacket?” John asked.

            Sherlock shrugged in the way he did when he didn’t know the answer to something.

            “He really rubs me the wrong way,” John said in his frustration. “He’s just so smug and…I don’t know. Something isn’t right in his head. I mean, human gloves?”

            “John,” Sherlock sounded amused and John turned. He tried not to show his awe at the sight of Sherlock in a perfectly tailored suit and instead opted for a glare.

            “The rambling, while  interesting in its own right, is getting tedious. We should be going. Mycroft will no doubt send a car. You have about 15 more minutes to rant before we need to be on relatively good behavior. Is there anything else you wish to mention before we go?” Sherlock said with a smirk.

            John couldn’t help but smile back. “Well, I look like a toad and you look stunning as always. I suppose I could gripe about that for 15 minutes.”

            “Oh, I do wish you didn’t. It is downright wrong to listen to you spout about how ugly you are when it simply isn’t true. You can tell me how wonderful I look for 15 minutes; I would be alright with that. Genius of any kind is to be applauded, it needs an audience and beauty, I find, is a form of genius,” Sherlock said.

            “That…is a brilliant way to look at it,” John said after a moment. Sherlock beamed.

            “I’ve always thought so. Now look,” he took John’s shoulders and turned him so they both stood framed in the mirror, “You are wonderful in your own right. It is an idiot’s mistake to put yourself next to someone so different and judge. I am taller, thinner, darker. Standing beside me and judging yourself is just idiocy and John, you are no idiot. Look. I mean really look.”

            John stared at himself. He stared at Sherlock watching him. He’d never seen himself as anything special and when he’d been shot he’d thrown away any hope of being good looking but Sherlock looked at him in earnest. It wasn’t just when they were dressed for the opera, it was every day. Sherlock watched him change his shirts with hunger in his eyes and when they worked, he watched John move as if memorizing each moment. The only times John felt truly attractive was when Sherlock was looking at him. He opened his mouth to say as much when the doorbell rang.

            “Sherlock, your car is here,” Mrs. Hudson flickered in the room.

            “Oh boys, don’t you look nice. It’s about time you took him out, Sherlock Holmes. Not everyone thinks romance is a set of lungs in a bloody bag,” she chided.

            John laughed. “Mrs. Hudson, this isn’t a date,” he countered.

            “Labels don’t matter,” she waved a light blue hand, “now boys, get in that car and have a good time for me.”

            Sherlock started for the door with a small smile and John followed on his heels. The car was sleek and black and somehow devoid of the ash that swirled in the air. John stared until Sherlock yanked him into the backseat.

            “10 minutes,” Sherlock said with a grin.

            “Molly Hooper and her odd lapdog then,” John said. He found he just didn’t like those who ran GeneCo.

            “What about her?” Sherlock asked pleasantly.

            “She unnerves me. She looks at you like you’re something to devour and that Adler woman, she’s just as bad,” John said furiously.

            “Her name is Irene, you know. She used to be quite pleasant. We grew up in the same area. Mummy adored her. Mycroft always wanted me to cultivate an acquaintance with her but I couldn’t get past those perfect teeth. Too straight,” Sherlock said.

            “I know her name,” John snapped back. Sherlock grinned, undeterred by the anger.

            “5 minutes.”

            “And Molly herself, is she crazy? In what world are you a good person?” John laughed.

            Sherlock looked slightly affronted but John simply said, “You know what I mean.”

            “Sadly, I do,” Sherlock said as they pulled up to the building. “Must not be much traffic.”

            John sighed as the driver opened the door and he stepped out first. The media swarm backed off when they realized he was no one. Sherlock slid out and stood beside him, instilling the same fear and awe he instilled in everyone in the young women holding mikes as they would hold trophies.

            “Who…who are you?” one of them finally seemed to have the voice to ask.

            “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, sounding distracted. He was looking over her head, no doubt searching for Mycroft. If his brother wanted to see him, there had to be a valid reason to bring him through the main entrance.

            “Brother of the Mycroft Holmes?” she asked. The media storm had somehow quieted and now everyone waited.

            “No. Step brother,” he corrected curtly.

            “Are you to inherit the company when your brother steps down?” she asked swiftly.

            “What? No. That’s what Ms. Adler and Mr. Moriarty are there for. I have no interest in running GeneCo,” he said, finally looking at her.

            She was a small redhead. 5 tags around her neck, one for her breasts, one for her nose, one for her liver, one for a small ear replacement and the last one for a lung. A careful knife junkie. He gave her a quick false smile.

            “Is it because you live a different lifestyle?” she asked, peering at John. John flushed and began to stutter but Sherlock simply snaked his arm around John’s waist and pulled him closer. John stopped talking. Sherlock’s body was warm and he smelled of peroxide and sweat. Something about it was purely Sherlock and made his mouth water.

            “That is no one’s business but our own, but for the record, I am not the heir to GeneCo because I do not wish to be, not because my brother is ashamed of my lifestyle,” Sherlock said strongly.

            John turned a bright shade of red when the woman turned to him.

            “And how do you feel about your partner being passed up for heir apparent?” she asked avidly.

            John opened his mouth helplessly but was saved by Molly Hooper. An instance he hoped would never occur again.

            “Oh Liza dearest, do stop badgering the boys! This is their first official opera, we mustn’t run them off,” she said with a small smile.

            She wore a bright red gown that had too many black straps for John’s taste. Her lips were painted a deep shade of burgundy and she had Irene Adler on her arm. Irene smiled serenely; her perfect teeth making both men shiver. John snuck a look at Sherlock and tried not to laugh.

            “Molly!” people began to shout and she laughed gaily.

            “Molly, is it true that you have a new upcoming contract with GeneCo that promises more enhancements in the future?” one man called greedily.

            She waved them off expertly while guiding Sherlock, who was still holding tightly to John’s waist, into the building.

            When the voices were behind them, Irene turned and slid her own arm around Molly’s waist. “What a little snot, asking if GeneCo cares about different relationships! Sherlock, I didn’t expect you to come in the front gate. Of course, it is lovely to see you again,” she said, her eyes running over him in an all too familiar way.

            Sherlock released John who couldn’t help but feel a bit upset that Sherlock’s hand wasn’t on his waist anymore. “I didn’t either. Mycroft sent the car. Speaking of, where is my dearest brother? I am here to speak with him,” Sherlock said.

            “In his office. I’m opening the events tonight. He said to send you up. Oh! If you’ll excuse me, Jim wasn’t supposed to wear those gloves,” Irene said, worry creasing her bluntly beautiful face. She hurried off while Molly watched.

            “I have to be backstage. I do hope you make it for the show,” she said with a quivering smile, “ta!”  Her hips swished as she walked away. She turned to look back once with a small wink before she disappeared through the backstage door.

            Sherlock watched Irene stride purposefully over to Jim Moriarty who looked up at her with a cool smile and then with a frown when she spoke. His eyes moved up and caught Sherlock’s. For a heart stopping moment, he smiled with terrifying surety and Sherlock looked away. John didn’t miss the slight interaction and said,

            “Right. Mycroft. Shall we?”

            John was feeling annoyed by all the people who seemed to want a piece of Sherlock. He thought that they should know by now that Sherlock was his. He blinked. That thought was rather more blunt than any of the others before. He let out a growl of frustration while Sherlock walked them around the opera house and into the GeneCo headquarters.

            “We don’t have to stay for the actual opera, you know,” Sherlock said with a smile over his shoulder.

            John could smell Irene’s sickly sweet perfume and he could see Molly watching Sherlock. Pictured the look on Moriarty’s face when he’d seen Sherlock. John shook his head as Sherlock herded him into the elevator.

            “Look I know you don’t want to be here,” Sherlock started and John couldn’t take it anymore.

            Two months of knowing what he wanted but not knowing how to take it. Two months of revolving half naked around one another. Two long months of working beside him and becoming his friend and he couldn’t lay a real claim on the man. He let out another growl.

            “Shut up, Sherlock, just shut up,” he said, stalking across the elevator in two steps.

            Sherlock leaned back against the wall in surprise and John reached up to grasp his face. He didn’t fight it when John pulled his head down and when their lips met, neither man was sure which one of them groaned. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and John ran his hand along Sherlock’s neck to hold him in place. John opened his mouth beneath Sherlock’s and Sherlock rumbled his approval, pulling them closer together. John touched his tongue to Sherlock’s lips as the elevator announced they had reached their floor but neither man stopped. Sherlock gripped John tighter and opened his mouth, allowing John’s tongue to enter his mouth.

            Sherlock had felt momentary surprise when John had grabbed him but it had fallen into relief when their lips had met. John fit perfectly into him. Sherlock had always liked being the bigger one, the one who curled around his partner like a protective shell. John molded to his body easily and he tasted like biscuits and minty toothpaste. Sherlock moaned when John’s tongue met his own.

            They clung to one another long after the door opened and kept up their insistent exploration of each other’s mouths until someone cleared their throat. John struggled to pull away from Sherlock who seemed to be trying to make up for two months of internal struggle and frustration in one kiss.

            “Boys, this really isn’t the time,” Lestrade said, running his fingers nervously through his head.

            Sherlock finally relented and laid his chin on top of John’s head while he glared. John couldn’t help but feel a spurt of joy at the obvious possessiveness Sherlock displayed.  He had half expected Sherlock to be horrified by the advance and was more than pleasantly surprised when instead of pushing him away, even after working himself free of the haze the kiss instilled, Sherlock only held him closer.

            “We were just getting to the good part,” Sherlock complained.

            “You can get to the good part in your own flat once this meeting is over. I, for one, would like to be home in my warm bed with my fiancée, but he is busy working so I have no sympathy for you tonight,” Lestrade said tiredly.

            “Right. You do know your reporters think the reason I’m not the heir to GeneCo is because I’m gay,” Sherlock said, releasing John but not moving away from him.

            Lestrade leaned on the elevator door so it wouldn’t close and sighed heavily.

            “I’ll talk to Mycroft,” he said, “now will you please come speak with your brother so I can go home?”

            Sherlock muttered as he walked out of the elevator but John could find no malice in him when Sherlock was holding his hand. He tried to dim his smile when Lestrade grinned knowingly and clapped him on the shoulder. They walked to the office doors where Lestrade gave them a tiny salute and left them.

            “Come in,” Mycroft called and Sherlock gripped John’s hand tighter when they walked in the door.

            Mycroft looked up. “Ah. Doctor Watson. Good to see you again. Sherlock. I have some…prospects to discuss with you, do sit down.”

            “Don’t feel like sitting,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “Fine,” Mycroft said. He’d already taken in their clasped hands and had moved past it for more important subjects.

            “I have a problem on my hands,” Mycroft began. “Someone is trying to take over GeneCo. They are doing it carefully and with cunning deceit, but it is there. It could be one of my heirs. It could be one of my scientists. It could even be Althea for all I know. I’m afraid I can’t seem to find the link. I am in need of assistance.”

            Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. He was reminded of what Sebastian had said to him as he’d died. Someone who had tried to take GeneCo before. It seemed possible that it could be happening again.

            “What do you need from us?” Sherlock asked.

            “I need you to help me without anyone knowing. I need you to go about your daily jobs, but pay attention. Pay attention to the cataloguing, to the other agents and even to those closest to me,” Mycroft said.

            “Don’t you have some secret service or something?” John broke in.

            “Yes, but they all spy on people for money. I’d rather have someone of trust in this position who will not benefit from my…loss,” Mycroft said with a slight incline of his head.

            “Yes, they were rather keen to know if I was your heir. Is that why you sent me out there?” Sherlock mused.

            “Yes. I needed to know what the reaction would be to my brother, blood relative or not. I noticed that Molly broke in when you needed her,” Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

            “I doubt it. Without GeneCo, she’d be nothing,” Sherlock dismissed.

            “Exactly. If someone is hoping to take over, they might need her. Taking over a company takes work, especially when it’s hostile. Who would you approach first?”

            “The face of the company,” John said.

            “Right. But she’s with Irene. I’ve always told you that trusting Irene Adler is a stupid mistake but she isn’t clever enough to try and take over a whole company alone,” Sherlock said.

            “No, you’re quite right there. I’ve been over this myself, what I need is for you to look at everyone. Leave no one out,” Mycroft said forcefully.

            “Greg?” Sherlock asked, a disbelieving arch in his voice.

            “Besides me and Greg. We are obviously not trying to overthrow ourselves,” Mycroft looked back down at his papers.

            “Right. And what’s the payment for this?” Sherlock asked.

            Mycroft looked up. “You want money? For me keeping the company and keeping your secrets, you want money?”

            “It is extra time I will be spending on the streets,” Sherlock said imperially.

            “Yes, and I paid for that special one of a kind heart that pumps in your chest,” Mycroft said mildly. John found the only things Mycroft did mildly were the things that mattered most.

            “I could just take that back, or I could continue to let it pump blood to your heart,” Mycroft finished.

            Sherlock pursed his lips. “Fine then. Pay John. This isn’t his job. As it is, he does more than his fair share of work for me. Pay him for this job and I won’t touch a penny of it.”

            John looked up at Sherlock in surprise but didn’t protest. Mycroft took a moment and finally began to nod. “That is reasonable. Now please, let yourselves out. I have an opera to attend and a fiancée to appease. I will check in with you sometime during the week. Good evening.”

 

            Sherlock didn’t speak until they were back in the elevator. What he did say surprised John.

            “Why didn’t you do that a month ago?” he asked.

            “What? Do what?” John asked, running his mind over what Sherlock could possibly be talking about.

            “Kiss me, John. Why didn’t you kiss me a month ago!” Sherlock snapped.

            John let out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?”

            “Yes, really. I’d like to know. I thought I was alone in that desire. I didn’t want to make anything strained,” Sherlock said.

            “Sherlock, you have pictures of your dead husband all over the flat. I wear his clothes. I didn’t know how much was me and how much was Victor. I just got fed up tonight,” John said.

            “Fed up with what?” Sherlock stepped closer to John.

            John peered up at him. “With how everyone in that room looked at you. Like they could have you. They can’t. You’re mine. I don’t know when I started thinking that, but tonight made it obvious. Molly, Irene, even that smug bastard Jim. They all looked at you like they wanted you,” John said frankly.

            Sherlock laughed.

            “What?” John asked. The elevator opened at the main lobby and Sherlock pulled John out and around the corner into an abandoned office.

            “You’re an idiot. It isn’t Victor. You and Victor are nothing alike. I’d have to be a fool to look at you and see the man I loved 3 years ago. I see you. And as for tonight, they might all look at me like they want me, but they all know they can’t have me. They all know I belong to you the same way they knew the first time they saw us together.” Sherlock began to crowd John against the bare desk and John leaned back on it, his fingers splayed against the wood.

            “They knew because I did. That first moment I ran into you. I knew I wanted you. And it just got better as we spent more time together. I belong to you. Only to you, now. Didn’t you notice?” he spoke against John’s cheek and John shivered as his hot breath ran along his skin.

            “Notice what?” John struggled to get out.

            Sherlock held up his hand slowly. His wedding ring was gone. John gaped as Sherlock smiled.

            “I was waiting for you to see,” Sherlock murmured as his lips descended on John’s.

            John didn’t need any more encouragement. He grabbed wildly for Sherlock. Sherlock’s tongue slid into his mouth as one of his hands ran down John’s chest. The other curled in John’s hair and John felt overwhelmed in the best possible way. He panted when Sherlock’s mouth moved to his neck and he whined when Sherlock sucked and nipped at his collar bone, leaving a mark. John’s fingers flexed as he held Sherlock’s jacket and his legs scrambled to wrap around the taller man.

            Sherlock let out a rich laugh. “Let’s go home,” he said, his voice thick.

            “Yes, god yes,” John replied. Sherlock pulled him to his feet and grinned. He pushed the jacket from John’s shoulders and rolled up the blonde man’s sleeves.

            “There. Now you look like the John I adore,” he said with bright eyes.

            John felt his heart pound. Sherlock grinned and yanked him out the door, leaving the jacket on the floor. John didn’t look back. Sherlock pulled him to the back of the building, pushing him against the wall to kiss him hard until they were both gasping for air. Before they could recover, Sherlock pushed open the door and dragged him into the street.

            “Race me,” Sherlock said with a grin.

            John took off without a word because he wanted to feel the air on his skin and because he knew Sherlock was right behind him.

            He ran nearly all the way to Baker Street, his heart pounding. When he slowed to a stop, Sherlock slammed into his back, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. His laughing breath hit John’s mouth as he turned to say something but the words were lost when Sherlock kissed him once more. John wished he had made his move sooner. Maybe he could have felt like this for a longer amount of time.

            He turned in Sherlock’s arms and twined his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

            “I win,” he smiled against Sherlock’s mouth.

            “Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed, “now what shall you receive as a prize?”

            John shivered at the intent and began to walk backward toward Baker Street.

            “Well I’m not sure, what can you offer me?” he asked with a flirting lilt.

            Sherlock smiled back, “Everything you want, John Watson, everything you want.”

            When they reached the door, there was no more discussion. No more words were needed. And when John’s body surged with pleasure, it was Sherlock’s name on his lips. Even more amazing than that though, was that when John felt Sherlock shudder above him, it was John’s name he whispered almost reverently against the sticky skin of John’s scarred arm. John pulled Sherlock down and into him so the taller man could curl around him. After minutes of gasping quiet, John said,

            “I think we need to get air conditioning.”

            Sherlock’s answering laugh was enough to make John smile and they fell asleep wrapped up together, the blankets on the floor and the sound of the opera drifting through the open window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, I love the comments and love to hear from you all, good or bad so please continue with the comments! they keep me going!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut. john and Sherlock question Molly and Irene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut filled chapter along with some major plot points. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Not beta'd or brit picked. All mistakes are my own.

The next morning rose in the same thick haze as every other morning and the only difference that either man could find was that they were curled in on each other. Sherlock was sticky with sweat but he didn’t want to move. John’s chest rose and fell under his head and when he closed his eyes, he could hear the organic heart beating. He tapped out the rhythm on John’s taunt stomach until the other man woke. John smiled blurrily at Sherlock and stretched.

            “You’ve got a strong heart here, doctor,” Sherlock said softly. John yawned.

            “I hope so. It has to keep me going,” he smiled.

            “Yes, they do that, don’t they?” Sherlock said.

            John looked down at the tone of his voice. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

            Sherlock peered up at him with sleep fogged eyes and smiled wanly.

            “No, only a memory. Nothing more,” he replied.

            “I hear you have a special heart,” John smiled, not knowing what he was asking, “Of course the great Sherlock Holmes has a special heart but what makes it so unique?”

            Sherlock’s smile dimmed and he looked down. John’s smile dropped. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked when Sherlock was silent for too long.

            “No, I just…I don’t want you to be upset by the answer,” Sherlock said truthfully.

            “Why would I be?” John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock closed his eyes in response.

            “It isn’t…normal,” Sherlock said hesitantly.

            “Sherlock, nothing about our life is normal. No one we know is normal. The most normal person we see on a daily basis is Mrs. Hudson,” John said logically.

            Sherlock sighed so his breath tickled John’s bare skin. Finally, he spoke.

            “My heart is specially made,” he began, “It was made for me when Victor died under specific qualifications. My heart…is a replica of Victor’s. I’d felt like I’d died when he did. I grew up an only child until my mother married Mycroft’s father and by then it was too late to have a sibling. He’s 7 years my senior which makes it harder. I was always alone. The only love I knew was a housekeeper and she wasn’t kept on when we moved. When I met Victor, it all changed. He was everything I wasn’t. Stunning, charismatic, charming. I was abrasive, brilliant and awkward at the best of times yet somehow, he stuck around me. The only thing I see in common between you and him is that. That somehow you both managed to want to be near me. But he was larger than life for me and I the same for him. We were all the other one had. When I lost him, I lost everything. My need for my work, my life and even my own heart. I was convinced I would die and so I began to shoot up with Zydrate. My body couldn’t take that plus my old drug habit coming back. I crashed and my heart wouldn’t hold out. The only way I would allow Mycroft to give me a new heart was to replicate Victor’s. Mycroft would do anything to keep Mummy happy. She’s the mother he never had, you see. So, my very special unique heart pumps my blood with the phantom veins of my dead husband. Morbid, is it not?” He rolled away from John as he finished, ready for John to reject him.

            John paused for a moment and let the information sink in before he turned on his side and draped his arm over Sherlock’s waist.

            “Love isn’t morbid,” he said quietly, “Love is passion and hope and when you lose someone, it all changes. That isn’t wrong, Sherlock. It’s special. What you did, what you chose, it shows strength and love. You fell into the hole that anyone who lost someone does but you got back up.”

            “I wasn’t doing such a great job until you,” Sherlock found he could admit these things to the wall while he felt John’s heart beating against his back.

            John closed his eyes at the raw pain Sherlock was showing him. “That’s okay,” he soothed, “it’s okay. You lost him and no one came to help you. No one was there. It’s lonely to lose anyone at all but someone so special and with no one to stand by you…I’m surprised you’re doing this well.”

            Sherlock flipped back onto his side with awe in his eyes. “You really don’t care,” he said.

            “You don’t care that I was married. That I loved him. That I kill people for a living and that I’m not well liked. You don’t care that I fight with genetics all day long and ask you to hold the torch for hours on end. You don’t mind the blood or any of it,” he said with awe.

            John shook his head with a small smile and Sherlock gaped at him, wiggling closer so his long legs could fling along John’s shorter ones.

            “How did I ever find you, John Watson?” Sherlock murmured as he nuzzled John’s chest.

            “Well you did nearly run me down,” John joked. Sherlock smiled and pushed him onto his back. John grinned at the mischievous look on Sherlock’s face.

            “Yes, it was quite hard to miss you after that,” Sherlock smiled. John slowly wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and grinned wickedly.

            “Hard?” he purred.

            Sherlock’s breath hitched and he rubbed his body slowly on John’s.

            “Yes, quite hard. You were very solid. Nearly knocked me off my feet,” Sherlock said softly as he ran his nose along John’s cheek.

            “Mmmm,” John hummed as pleasant heat ran across his skin, “and you were impressive, I must say.”

            “Oh was I?” Sherlock laughed. He rolled his hips and John gasped. John’s fingers scrambled for hold on Sherlock’s shoulders and his nails made half-moon indents in Sherlock’s pale skin.

            Sherlock half laughed but it ended in a moan as John shoved his hips up against Sherlock.

            “Yes, you were,” John said into Sherlock’s ear when Sherlock fell on top of him. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh and John ran his heel along the back of Sherlock’s thigh making the other man shiver.

            “I haven’t…felt this for quite some time,” Sherlock admitted. He kissed his way down John’s neck to keep himself busy. John pushed him back lightly.

            “And I never have,” he replied quietly.

            For a moment the two men stared at one another then slowly, John’s eyes darkened and Sherlock’s lips quirked in response. He leaned down slowly. Their lips met and Sherlock could swear there was a spark between them. He lowered his body fully against John’s and let their skin slide together.  John gasped and dug his nails into Sherlock’s skin with more force. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth. John wiggled his hips and made a begging noise in the back of his throat.

            “Have you ever?” Sherlock asked, his fingers sliding down and between John’s legs.

            John let his legs fall open and shook his head, his mouth wet and opening, begging Sherlock to take it once more. Sherlock lowered his head as John breathed, “No, but I want you to.”

            Sherlock brushed his mouth once before pulling up.

            “Are you sure?” he asked, hardly able to voice the question. He didn’t want to hurt John, but he wanted to be inside of John so badly. His body ached with his need for the other man. It had been nearly 4 years since he’d touched another person intimately and John was special. John was a firecracker wrapped in rough beauty. John made Sherlock think things he hadn’t thought of since Victor. Sometimes he even thought of things he had never thought of with Victor. John was loyal and smart in ways that Sherlock was not. He was rough edges with a rogue heart and when he smiled, Sherlock only wanted to hold him. Now though, with John underneath him, eyes glazed over with want and his body undulating on its own, all he wanted was to be buried inside the other man. To prove that John was his from that moment on.

            “Yes, god, yes. Please, Sherlock,” John nearly whimpered. He rolled his hips in a jerking motion and Sherlock slid against him while he reached for the drawer.

            “Oh, yes, do that,” John said enthusiastically as Sherlock’s body slid against his own. Sherlock smiled for a brief moment before pulling out a condom and lube.

            “I’m clean,” John said when he saw it.

            “Only for now,” Sherlock replied as he settled back onto his knees. John gave a mewling gasp at the sudden lack of contact but his partner’s darkened eyes caught his attention. John let his legs fall open even wider as Sherlock slicked his fingers.

            “If this hurts at all, tell me. I’ll stop,” Sherlock warned. John could only manage a nod.

            When he felt the light pressure he gasped and suddenly, his body gave and one of Sherlock’s long and lovely fingers sunk deep inside of him. He closed his eyes and let the rolls of heat and pleasure control him. His moans were raw and when Sherlock’s teeth latched onto his nipple his body arched from the bed. Sherlock slowly slipped a second finger inside and John couldn’t help but gasp,

            “You play so beautifully.”

            Sherlock didn’t stop but his mouth moved away from John’s chest so he could ask, “What do you mean?”

            John took a minute to answer as Sherlock’s fingers brushed his prostate and he couldn’t speak. Only when his fingers stopped their movements could he answer.

            “The violin. You play beautifully. Just like you’re playing me,” John smiled, his eyes half open in his haze.

            He felt Sherlock smile against his chest and knew he’d said the right thing. Sherlock slowly began to move his fingers again and John moaned.

            “You need to…soon…” John panted, “I’m afraid I won’t last.”

            Sherlock rocked back once more and John nearly came when Sherlock brought the condom to his mouth and ripped it open with his teeth. He slid it on expertly with shaking fingers and pushed gently against John when he was ready. John’s body gave and both men groaned. Sherlock didn’t move for a moment and they stared into the other’s eyes, both laying themselves bare.

            Sherlock could see John’s raw emotion and need and John could study Sherlock’s fragile heart as they lay connected. John had never been so close to another person and he licked his lips quickly in anticipation. Finally, Sherlock moved slightly and John’s eyes fell shut. Neither could help the noises that ripped from their throats and John’s panting only intensified when Sherlock wrapped his right hand around John’s shaft and rolled his wrist. Both men moaned in unison.

            “I’m…please tell me…” John couldn’t form either sentence he wished to convey and he simple arched his back and panted as Sherlock’s body drove into his harder.

            Sherlock had wanted to be gentle, to be careful, but as his need took over it was too much. He slammed into John harder, jerking him off with the motion to make him come. John seemed to enjoy it and Sherlock felt a spurt of joy when John dug his nails deeply into Sherlock’s thighs. They would leave small cuts on Sherlock’s pale skin but he didn’t mind. He continued to move, pushing himself deeper inside his partner until he felt himself teeter on the edge.

            “Now!” he barked and it was as if John had been waiting for him. Both of their bodies quaked with the force of their orgasms and Sherlock crashed forward, his arms hardly catching him as his forehead landed against John’s shoulder.

            John could feel Sherlock pulsing inside his body and he laid in a warm stupor until Sherlock shakily began to pull back. He let out a small noise in protest and was rewarded by a gentle kiss to his cheek while Sherlock cleaned himself up. He gently rubbed a cloth along John’s stomach as well as his own before curling back beside John.

            “Is it always that good?” John panted.

            Sherlock shook with quiet laughter.

            “Honestly? It’s never been that good before that I can remember,” he said warmly.

            John felt his heart jump into his chest. He’d never thought of himself as all that important to Sherlock until the night before and even then, he’d felt he was in the shadow of Victor. But Sherlock’s happy confession made John feel that he was so much more than he’d believed. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and was rewarded with a slight wiggle as Sherlock cuddled in closer. John closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.

 

            It took a few hours, but finally, Sherlock spoke.

            “We need to go to GeneCo today. The housing district, at least,” he said.

            “Why?” John nearly groaned. He had hoped to spend their day in bed before trekking back across London for their new assignments.

            “I need to speak with Molly and possibly Irene. If you’re right, Molly will be under a new contract. Everyone knows her contract is to be renewed in the coming month. What if she’s been recruited with the promise of more? We need to crack her before anything happens beyond what already has. We have the element of surprise right now, we can ask questions but we need to strike quickly before whoever it is realizes,” Sherlock said.

            John lost his part in the conversation when Sherlock rolled in his excitement. John had never felt so lucky, which was odd since he’d thought the rise of GeneCo would be the end of any good in his life. He rolled himself partly on top of Sherlock and grinned.

            “Did you just say I was right?” he asked.

            Sherlock shook his head so his nose brushed John’s and he protested, “I said if. If you’re right.”

            “And if I am, what do I get? “John asked with a grin.

            Sherlock snaked his arms around John with a huff. “You just want everything, don’t you?”

            “Oh yes,” John laughed.

            Sherlock smiled and said softly, “Good. Because I’m going to give you all of it.”

            John blinked in surprise and couldn’t hide the bright smile in response. Sherlock smiled back and then sighed.

            “We have to get up,” he groaned.

            John flopped back onto the bed and sighed. “Fine, but I’m not going to like it,” he proclaimed.

            “Me either, but it must be done,” Sherlock agreed. When Sherlock stood, John watched the slim span of his back as he bent to pick up a discarded pair of pants that had fallen from a laundry pile.

            John only rolled to his feet when Sherlock was mostly dressed. “All of my stuff is upstairs,” he whined.

            Sherlock patted him on the shoulder with a laugh. “And you say I’m lazy,” he commented.

            “Don’t start,” John said, “I’m going to be walking like a rodeo rider for a week, I should get some sympathy.”

            Sherlock grinned. “Nope, you wanted it.”

            John tried to frown but couldn’t and Sherlock laughed, a sound that happened far too little for John’s taste. He shook his head and left the room in search of clothes.

            By the time they were both dressed, John had sorted out how he felt about Sherlock and his life. He’d come to terms with the fact that he didn’t think he could live without Sherlock and that even with GeneCo such a prominent part of their relationship, he wouldn’t change any of it. He tumbled down the stairs and nearly straight into Sherlock who was tucking in his shirt. The top 3 buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and John had a wild impulse to lick down Sherlock’s chest.

            Sherlock gave him a vague smile and said, “Ready?”

            John nodded. It was all business, then. He’d always marveled at Sherlock’s ability to follow one line of thought so fully it blurred out everything else. He could tell that while he’d been changing, Sherlock had changed the track in his mind and was now following the problem he was faced with.

            When he herded John out the door, John felt compelled to ask, “What secrets did Mycroft mean?”

            “Hm? Oh,” Sherlock looked over as if surprised he was there before he answered.  “He meant my heart, my drug use after Victor’s death and of course, convincing Victor to not take the heart that was offered him. There are quite a few things today’s world would do to me if they found out everything I’ve done wrong.”

            “Your heart is a secret?” John asked in confusion as they turned down a side street.

            “It is illegal now, so yes,” Sherlock said. His eyes roved over the setting. John knew he noticed the Grave Robber creeping down the street but he didn’t say anything.

            “Is the Grave Robber natural?” John asked.

            Sherlock turned with a faint smile. “I believe so. He would not have avoided a repo agent if he wasn’t. Some people don’t need new organs, the failure didn’t affect them. Of course, a lot of them went under the knife anyway but he’s smart. Far too clever to fall into the trap of GeneCo. Much like you. Only one necessary surgery and that’s all. Paid it off and now here you are.”

            John nodded.

            “So, do you think Molly will crack?” John asked.

            Sherlock truly grinned then. “Oh yes, if I have anything to do with it.”

 

            Molly was bored out of her mind. After an opera night she spent the next day in her quarters reading over the comments left by those who attended to stay sharp. After a while, they all seemed to say the same things. When the door opened she didn’t turn as she said,

            “Apparently, they don’t like me in red. How riveting. Sometimes I wish I had gone to work in the morgue. Much easier crowd.”

            “You shouldn’t joke, Molly. You aren’t any good at it,” Sherlock said.

            Molly spun in her chair. She was sitting in front of her air conditioner in white lace panties and a matching bra. Her hands jumped to cover herself and Sherlock rolled his eyes. For a moment she smiled and then she saw John behind him and the smile dropped.

            “What do you want?” she asked flatly.

            “Oh you know, just to talk. I thought that dress was lovely, didn’t you John?”

            John eased into the room with a happy sigh. “This is what we need, cool air,” he said, ignoring Sherlock’s question.

            “I didn’t invite you in,” Molly said sharply.

            “No Mycroft did. Funny how that works,” Sherlock said. He sidled to her side and folded himself gracefully to the floor where Molly could glare at him from above. John moved to stand beside him, his eyes on the door.

            “Your watchdog has learned to heel, hasn’t he?” she snapped.

            John felt Sherlock twitch at his feet and he brought his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders to stop him. Sherlock snarled.

            “Yes, you would say so, wouldn’t you? You’ve already been culled into submission by our wonderful dominatrix, the heiress of GeneCo,” he replied.

            Molly recoiled at the venom in his voice and John said lowly, “Sherlock…”

            Sherlock looked up at him and John gave a slight shake of his head. Sherlock visibly relaxed.

            “Right. So, Molly…take any bribes lately?” Sherlock asked conversationally.

            Molly physically jumped. “What?” she asked but her voice wavered.

            “Ah, so you have. Wonderful. Who is it?” Sherlock clapped and Molly looked at John for help.

            John was handsome normally but he was never more attractive then when he was in soldier mode protecting Sherlock. His shirt was mostly open and Molly could see his scar. Scars had always attracted her. She loved when Irene left welts on her skin. They were fascinating to her, contours on the flesh. She stared at John as she chewed her lip.

            “Oh of course,” Sherlock said. Molly looked down at him but his eyes were on John.

            “You were right,” he said. There was more in the words than a simple confession and Molly watched with interest as a flush crawled up John’s neck.

            “How so?” he managed.

            “She took a bribe. You were right that they would approach her. You weren’t totally correct though,” Sherlock said, “as it was Irene who bribed her to begin with. Irene isn’t the one running the show but it was her idea to bring in Molly. Always such a clever girl, Irene.”

            “Why thank you, love,” Irene purred and Molly turned gratefully. She reached out a pale hand and Irene took it briefly with a squeeze before letting go.

            “Ah, you’re here. Wonderful. Why and how did you bribe Molly?”  Sherlock stood and brushed imaginary dirt from his trousers.

            “Oh now, love, I don’t tell my secrets. You should know that by now,” she smiled.

            “Well I will find out eventually,” Sherlock reasoned.

            “And by then it will be too late. Though, if you’re lucky you’ll be included. Everyone knows Mycroft isn’t really your family. And who else do you have now? Don’t you remember the good old days? Calling me while you shivered just for my miracle of a mouth?” she smirked but it was short lived.

            Sherlock never thought he’d have to restrain John in any social capacity no matter how strained so he was surprised when John lunged at Irene. Molly whimpered but Irene only laughed when his hands caught her neck.

            “Touchy, aren’t you? So protective of someone who can never love you. No doubt he’s told you that he’ll never love anyone like he loved Victor. Lonely man, our Sherlock.”

            “John,” it was Sherlock’s turn to calm John and he put his hand on John’s shoulder, pulling him gently. “John, it’s alright. Come here. It’s alright.”

            “If someone was the one abusing power it was you,” John said, his voice shaking, “you took someone broken and didn’t help. You are the monster, not him.”

            Irene lifted a perfectly kept eyebrow with a small smirk. She flicked her gaze to Sherlock and smiled lazily. “Got him trained, do you?”

            Molly laughed. She felt safe. Sherlock knew they couldn’t do anything to either women but he simply shifted his weight.

            “John does what he likes. Remember Seb? John helped me rip his heart out. I would say Mycroft is the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet but Doctor Watson here, he might have Mycroft beat. Make no mistake, I will find out who is behind this.”

            Irene pushed John away from her and stepped close to Sherlock. Her lips brushed his cheek as she spoke. “You can try, but oh, they’re so much more clever than you. You’ve gone soft.”

            John growled deep in his throat and Sherlock stepped back with a smirk. Slowly, he took John’s hand. Irene didn’t miss the motion and her body tightened. She didn’t handle rejection in any capacity well and years before, she’d been the one Sherlock had called to feel something again when he was high and the world was so raw. She’d always harbored a hope that he would come back to her sober so she could enjoy him even more but he never had. He’d pulled back, looked at her with disgust and avoided speaking with her unless she had to. She’d always held on to the idea that he simply wanted to be alone but when his hand found John’s she saw John lean into the connection and she knew. It twisted like a knife in her gut.

            She’d known Sherlock since they were teenagers. Their families came from the same situation of money and they’d been somewhat friends even into the time of GeneCo. She’d been in love with him. Irene had never loved sex; it was simply a way to get what she wanted. She enjoyed Molly, but her true love was the cold man with the intelligent eyes who walked the night. She’d always hoped. During Victor, after and even in that very moment, she held hope. He would never love her. She knew it. But her desperation for more could not be killed. When Sherlock had called her for help in his worst days she’d felt a thrill until she realized he simply had no one else. Sherlock lead a lonely life that she’d wished to be a part of. She frowned.

            Sherlock half turned to John with a smile, “Oh I wouldn’t say soft.”

            “Lying in wait,” John added.

            “Quite,” Sherlock grinned.

            They were in love. Irene could see it in their eyes. In the way they leaned in to one another. They might not have known it yet but they were in love. She looked away.

            “You won’t know until they want you to,” she said frankly and Sherlock leaned forward at her change of tone.

            “Why is this happening?” he asked greedily.

            “It’s time for things to change,” Irene said confidently, “GeneCo has been run by Mycroft long enough. Under new management, it will flourish and the people will be happier.”

            “The people are fine. Mycroft runs everything just fine. How come you don’t just wait? You’re the heiress. You’ll inherit the company when Mycroft steps down anyway. Which will most likely be soon. Why risk it?”

            Molly made a small noise in her throat but Irene shushed her. “It’s alright, dear. It’s a calculated risk. It’s better for everyone. It will change repossessions. It will change everything.”

            “So you would stop repo agents?” John asked skeptically.

            “Oh no,” Irene laughed, “no, it would just be more discreet. Offices. No street running. It’s a messy business now, isn’t it? Blood on everything. Being the stuff of nightmares.”

            John opened his mouth then shut it again. He found he could say nothing. Sherlock spoke instead.

            “So it will be the glory of GeneCo.”

            “Yes. Just that.”

            Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Right. We’ll be off. Expect another visit soon.”

            “Sherlock?” Irene called. She had reached out to Molly and was caressing the other woman’s face with pointed nails. Sherlock turned and John stopped in the doorway.

            “Tell him. All of it. You don’t want to lose everything again,” she said with heartfelt sincerity.

            Sherlock hesitated before walking out the door and closing it behind him.

 

            John couldn’t seem to calm his anger. First at Molly for being so rude and then more so at Irene for her attack. Sherlock was fragile. He didn’t show it, but his heart was large and it needed care. John wanted only to care for it, cultivate it. If that meant helping to tear organs out of those who couldn’t pay for them, so be it. He had long ago accepted the fact that he wasn’t a good person in the sense of the righteous. He couldn’t bide anyone attacking Sherlock in that way. It didn’t matter if Sherlock had gotten high and called her for sex. It didn’t matter to him in the slightest besides the nagging worry that Sherlock had been so hurt for so long that he needed to do such things. What mattered was now and John was sure he had given and gotten more to and from Sherlock than anyone since Victor. That was his victory but Irene had sought to taint it. He found her a devilish creature.

            “She should have a forked tongue,” he said darkly.

            Sherlock sounded amused when he replied, “Who?”

            “Irene Adler,” John said sullenly.

            Sherlock smiled at him. He picked up speed as he walked and finally reached a dark door that he pushed open. “Come here,” he said huskily.

            John followed without thought. He would follow Sherlock anywhere.

            It paid off.

            “Sherlock!” he cried out in surprise when he was pushed against the wall.

            “Molly was horrid. Speaking about you like that. You are anything but docile. You’re…fire and power,” Sherlock murmured, kissing a line down John’s neck.

            John felt a wicked heat flare in him and he smiled. He pushed Sherlock back until the taller man slammed into the door.

            “No, Irene was worse. She knows nothing. Her miracle mouth? You’re a miracle in all. Everything else pales in comparison. You’ll forget her,” he said with his mouth against Sherlock’s.

            Sherlock was inclined to agree but he liked this dominant John. “Oh will I?” he nudged John’s nose with his own.

            John’s eyes were dark and his hands rough. “You will,” he growled.

            Sherlock smiled. “Make me.”

            John rocked back on his heels before pushing his groin against Sherlock’s. He had to stand slightly on his toes but the stretch was worth it. Sherlock moaned.

            “I plan to.”

            It was crazy. It was insane. They were in an unkept apartment in GeneCo living quarters. John had his trousers down around his knees while he knelt between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock was panting, his long fingers twined in John’s blonde hair while he moaned. John was using his mouth to make Sherlock shake and cry out. It was glorious. Sherlock yanked on John’s hair as a warning but John was determined. Sherlock was his, not Irene’s. His. He wanted to taste his partner. He wanted to feel all of it. When Sherlock came, it shot down John’s throat and John hummed in appreciate while Sherlock shuddered. He slid up his lover and gasped when Sherlock’s hand wrapped around him once more.

            “My turn,” Sherlock smiled. He kissed John and swept his tongue inside the smaller man’s mouth, tasting himself mixed with the unique flavor of John. It was intoxicating. As he brought John to the edge he thought hazily about love and the turn of events. He had thought his feelings for John were one sided. He had been proven wrong many times over. John moaned into his mouth and Sherlock smiled. John spilt himself all over Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock pulled back. Slowly he brought his hand up to his face and licked at the warm, sticky mess. John took a shattered breath and leaned on Sherlock.

            “I love you,” he said shakily. Sherlock pulled back and pulled John’s chin up. John looked miserable.

            “I know you don’t want to hear it. You don’t love me. It’s okay. I know you loved Victor and that’s good. I’m glad you had that. I just…I love you. I have for at least a month now,” he rambled until Sherlock kissed him.

            It was an intimate kiss and one that didn’t promise anything more than affection. Sherlock pulled back and pressed a lighter kiss to John’s lips before scattering kisses along his face.

            “Don’t,” he said sweetly, “Don’t tell me how I feel. Don’t depreciate yourself like that. You are amazing John, positively amazing. I expect nothing less from the person I want to spend all of my time with.”

            John let out a shaky breath. “I just…”

            “You just think I can’t love you because I loved Victor before. Because I remember him in my everyday life.”

            John nodded hesitantly.

            “That’s an idiotic notion,” Sherlock laughed softly, “Because that was years ago and though I will never stop loving him it doesn’t mean I can’t love you.”

            John held his breath. Sherlock smiled as he kissed John’s eyelids.

            “I love you,” he said calmly. “I love you and I fear I always will. I’m afraid it’s part of being me. Once my love is given it cannot be lost.”

            John gaped at him. “Forever?” he said weakly.

            Sherlock looked anxious. “Forever. Unless…you don’t want it.”

            “Forever is a long time, Sherlock,” John said quietly, “are you sure?”

            Sherlock grimaced. “Hopelessly.”

            John tipped his head to look into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock might play the part of the reaper but he was nothing like the soulless hunter. He smiled.

            “Then I’ll take everything you’ll give me and hopefully return it back in what I give you.”

            Sherlock kissed him and it touched his soul. John had never felt so close to another person and he couldn’t call it anything else. Their souls met as their mouths moved together and his pure contentment filled his entire body. Only when Sherlock pulled back with a slight laugh did he open his eyes.

            “We should clean up and head home. I need to take some notes and we need to be back later for our assignments. If I wasn’t sure Mycroft will be with Lestrade doing things I don’t need to know about, I would go over there now.  How about we head home and go back to bed. After all, being naked is the best way to deal with the heat,” Sherlock said.

            John smiled and pulled up his trousers. “That is an excellent plan.”

            Sherlock fixed his own trousers before wiping his hand on the inside of his shirt and tucking it on. When John made a face, he only shrugged.

            “Come along, if we get home in the next hour I estimate we’ll have at least two hours to ourselves,” he grinned.

            “Your experiments are going to suffer,” John commented.

            “You’re the best experiment I have,” Sherlock said.

            John laughed in the hazy light of the day. “I doubt Mycroft will agree with that.”

            Sherlock smiled and even in the dirt and grime of London it was beautiful.

            “Sod him. Let’s go home. I have some new experiments to try on my best test subject.”

            John laughed and began to run. For once, he ignored Molly’s voice announcing the opera run through and newest GeneCo arrivals and for once, he didn’t have a care in the world.

            It would end up being a short lived joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love comments and thank you to all those wonderful readers who leave them for me :) keep it up!
> 
> I'm thankful to you all for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock speaks with Molly, John talks to Lestrade and the face of the clever person is revealed.

Sherlock was happily in love with his flatmate and bodyguard but life seemed determined to deter him from showing it. His weeks list gave him 4 high profile people who needed high end organs removed along with 10 other lower level removals. One was a spine. Sherlock did not relish having to retrieve that and marked it as the bottom of the pile. During the day when he would usually spend his time working on the X genetic he had to question those in GeneCo without anyone getting suspicious and when he had free time, he had to report to Mycroft. Sometimes John was with him but mostly, he let John sleep. Sherlock had grown used to a lifestyle where sleep was a 5 letter word that was swept under the rug. John was not. They slept in the same bed when Sherlock managed to get to bed, but more often than not John found him asleep at his table or on the couch. It was a strained time for the recent couple and one that would only bear more strain as time went on.

            “Why are you going alone, again?” John asked in irritation as Sherlock got ready to leave.

            “Because Molly doesn’t like you and she asked to speak with me alone. Which also means no Irene, so don’t worry,” Sherlock replied.

            “I’m not worried she’s going to jump you, I’m worried period,” John explained.

            “Don’t. I can take care of myself. Mrs. Hudson, we are out of milk,” Sherlock said as he fixed his cuffs.

            The house interface shimmered in front of them as she said, “Why can’t you get some? You’re going out! Worrying poor John, how horrible of you. The least you could do is get the milk.”

            “It isn’t proper to listen in on conversations, Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a strangled laugh. Leave it to the ancient land lady to hit the nail on the head.

            “I need to entertain myself somehow, dear boy. I do wish you’d stop fornicating in this room, though. It’s been months since it’s had a dusting.”

            John blushed and Sherlock laughed. He bent down and kissed John quickly.

            “I will be back as soon as I can. Hopefully with the milk,” John wasn’t holding his breath, “and then we can fornicate all we want.” Sherlock grinned.

            John couldn’t help himself and he smacked Sherlock’s ass as the man went by. Sherlock jumped and John laughed. “Hurry home,” he said to his partner’s back. Sherlock nodded as he charged out the door.

 

            Molly met Sherlock in a meeting room on the 10th floor of the GeneCo living quarters. She was dressed modestly in a dark burgundy top that hardly covered her breasts and tight black jeans that clung to her. She licked her lips when he entered.

            “Cut the charade. You wouldn’t want to actually be with me anymore than I want to be with you,” he said.

            She smiled faintly. “You think I’m not on your side, but I am. Irene is too, if you must know.”

            He sat on the edge of the chrome table. She folded gloved fingers on the table top and gazed at him.

            “How so?” he asked.

            “Mycroft gave me my new contract. I won’t lie and say it’s any better than the one I’m in agreement on with this…person but what I can tell you is we’re all afraid of them. Irene was the first approached but there are more. They’ve been trying to convert most of the London headquarters so that when the shot is taken, it will go smoothly. They are the spider in the center of a web and they will pull any string to get what they want.”

            “Why do they want GeneCo?” Sherlock questioned avidly.

            Molly shrugged. “Why would anyone want GeneCo? It’s the most powerful company on the planet. After the war with Genetic Works, every other company fell away. GeneCo is alpha and omega. Anyone who runs GeneCo runs the world.”

            “But Mycroft only runs the London headquarters,” Sherlock argued. Molly laughed and pierced him with her brown eyes.

            “You don’t believe that any more than I do. Mycroft could run the planet and he’d do it efficiently.”

            “So this isn’t about making GeneCo better, it’s about power.”

            Molly lifted her eyebrows before peeling her gloves away to show red marks on her wrists.

            “Isn’t it always?” she said.

            He stared at them before she slipped the gloves back on.

            “That wasn’t Irene. She doesn’t leave marks you need to cover,” Sherlock said certainly.

            “Half right,” Molly said, “it was Irene, but it wasn’t what she wanted. You know Irene is dominant in nearly everything but she would never hurt me beyond what I could handle. It seems she’d been threatened. Make it clear we’re on the right team or it would be worse and not by her hand. You should see my back. She did it to save us both but it convinced me. Your brother would never threaten to hurt me like that. Even if I was out of line. I know the worst Mycroft could do. This person…well I don’t and that’s worse.”

            “So Irene hurt you to save you both?” Sherlock asked.

            Molly nodded.

            “And now you’re convinced you need to help bring him down?” Sherlock wrinkled his face in thought.

            Molly nodded once more.

            Sherlock leaned forward. “And what if I don’t believe you?”

            She stared up at him before leaning in closer. “I am not stupid. I know I’m being watched. Probably by both of them. I know what I’m choosing here. My only demand is that Irene be saved as well.”

            Sherlock dipped his head. “She doesn’t love you,” he said frankly in her ear.

            Molly laughed. “She doesn’t love anyone. That isn’t personal. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t care and it doesn’t mean I don’t.  I’m just ensuring our safety.”

            “Does she know?” he frowned at her.

            Molly smoothed her hands over her thighs. “I think she suspects, she’s much more clever than I am but no, I didn’t tell her.”

            “She won’t appreciate that,” Sherlock clucked.

            Molly leaned back, finally relaxing. “You don’t need to tell me about Irene. Just because you’ve known her longer doesn’t mean you know more. And yes, I know about what happened after Victor. Secrets are an easy currency. You might want to be careful who you share with.”

            He leaned back and his eyes flashed. “You mean John.”

            “What do you really know about John Watson? I’ve looked over his file. It really helps my image that people think I’m stupid and dull. Makes it easier to sneak about,” she grinned.

            “John? You’re asking me about John?” Sherlock asked incredulously. He’d lost his hold on the conversation and was somewhat confused with the change of direction.

            “Did you know he was shot by a Genetics Works doctor?” Molly asked pleasantly.

            Sherlock was livid. He didn’t care. Just like John didn’t ask about his track marks and didn’t flinch when he grinned while repossessing organs. They lived in a world where those things didn’t matter. He leaned in close to Molly so his breath moved her hair.

            “Listen closely. I will take your help. I will help Irene and I will fix this but let’s get this clear. John is none of your business. He will never be your business and your bitterness over this is only ugly, not cunning. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up before I decide to not help you at all,” he hissed.

            She sat back and took him in, her tongue on her lip. Then she laughed. “Bravo. Good boy,” she stood up, “I’ll stop by your little flat later on this week when I have time. We’ll go over what I have. Until then…” she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.

            His eyes widened as she pulled back. “The doctor shot him because he wouldn’t let the man kill the teenager on his table,” she said as she walked around the table and toward the door, “he sewed the girl up while he bled out and wouldn’t let anyone look at it until he was done. John Watson is a good man. If only I had such luck.”

            He waited until the door swung shut behind her to slump against the table. His mind began to race. Whoever it was who was trying to overthrow Mycroft was slowly working through the ranks of GeneCo but was worried that Irene and Molly might baulk. It had to be someone who knew Irene well enough to know that she played every hand she was dealt at the same time and she played them all well. It also had to be someone who knew that Irene had a heart, despite what the media said about her and what people usually thought. Using Molly as a stronghold could work but most people underestimated Molly which gave him another clue. It was most likely a man, another woman would feel threatened by Irene and no doubt be able to tell that Molly was more than she seemed.

            That left a man in the company who wanted more. Sherlock’s mind ran over everyone who worked in GeneCo. Mycroft kept tabs on everyone. When the war ended it left a bloody mess of people. Some who were scared of GeneCo and some who were a bit too enthusiastic to hurt others. Mycroft had weeded out the butchers and lost those who had too much moral standing to work for him and the company had straightened out fairly quickly. It was true he kept those he needed locked in contracts and even Sherlock couldn’t break his without dire consequences so it had to be someone who had nothing to lose. Or someone insane. Or both. He let out a strangled sigh before hopping from the table and heading back to Baker Street. He would figure it out from there.

 

            While Sherlock was with Molly, John had a visitor.

            “John?” Lestrade called up the stairs hesitantly.

            John turned at the sound. He was in his customary place of leaning out the window to let the air blow over his skin when Greg Lestrade bounded up the stairs.

            “Sherlock isn’t here,” John said.

            “I know. I came to talk to you. He’s at GeneCo with Molly,” Lestrade said. He leaned on the doorframe until John motioned him into the room.

            “Fuck, it’s hot in here,” Lestrade said after a moment.

            “Well you can buy him the bloody air conditioner than. It’s killing me, but he’s insistent that it’s fine. He’s a furnace at night, too,” John said.

            “So that wasn’t a one time thing?” Lestrade asked.

            John shook his head with a slight smile. Lestrade seemed to be thinking about that before he opened his mouth to speak.

            “Good. That’s good. Sherlock has always been a great man but for a while, after Victor he forgot how to be a good one. He was a robot who took pride in ripping organs out of people. Since you, well that joy hasn’t seemed to fade, but he’s more alive. More alive in two months than he’s been in 3 years…” he trailed off, lost in thought until John cleared his throat.

            “Right. I’m here to warn you. Sherlock isn’t careful and he doesn’t listen to his brother. You need to pay attention for both of you. He isn’t hiding what he’s doing very well and if he isn’t careful, he’ll get both of you killed. Just watch his back and watch your own. Mycroft thinks the storm is coming soon. We all need to be prepared,” Lestrade spoke seriously.  

            John let the words sink in then he nodded. “Alright. We’ll be careful.”

            “On jobs and off,” Lestrade clarified.

            “Yes, of course,” John nodded.

            Lestrade nodded and turned to go. He hesitated at the top of the stairs and John stared at his back. Lestrade was the most normal man John had ever met and it seemed odd to him that the kind and careful man was engaged to Mycroft. Lestrade let his shoulders drop as he debated whether or not to say what was on his mind.

            “It’s okay, whatever it is,” John said finally.

            “Do you love him?” Lestrade asked carefully.

            John flushed. If it was anyone else he would have told them to piss off but Lestrade was kind and cared and he didn’t turn to look at John like there was an agenda to being with Sherlock, so John answered truthfully.

            “Yes and I have been for quite some time.”

            Lestrade smiled at his feet. “Over a month. Not when you first met him. You were fascinated then, but over a month. We saw the difference. He was bestowed with you the first day of course, but that’s Sherlock for you. That’s good. That you know it. I don’t think I could accept him being with someone who didn’t love him. Not since Victor.  Not since the mess that made of him. You know, I was willing to hurt you if you hurt him but I don’t see that happening. You two are the most fiercely loyal human beings I’ve ever met. Gives me hope. Just be careful, okay?”

            He didn’t wait for John to answer before he clomped down the stairs. John watched his back until it disappeared out the door. Making a face he finally headed for the bathroom calling for a cup of tea when he got out.

 

            John was lying naked in Sherlock’s bed sleeping lightly when Sherlock got home. He heard the door close and he rolled over when Sherlock crept into the room.

            “Find out anything?” John slurred.

            Sherlock leaned over the bed and kissed John on the forehead. “Yes. A few things,” he said.

            John smiled sleepily. He had never thought he would end up domestic. He’d trained to be a doctor at wartime and he’d been tested when he’d been shot. He’d never thought he’d be with someone and want to spend his life with then. Lying in Sherlock’s bed with the smell of Sherlock’s body and his own, he found he liked the domestic feel of it.

            “What did you find out?” he asked.

            Sherlock sat beside him causing the bed to dip and John to tip into Sherlock’s side. He grinned up at Sherlock who smiled back vaguely.

            “I found out that Molly wants out of her deal, that it isn’t Irene and that it is most likely a man doing this,” he said.

            John kissed Sherlock’s back and Sherlock drew a ragged breath. “I also learned…that you are an amazing man,” he said without turning to John. John stilled.

            “Molly had read your file. She was testing me. She told me. About how you got shot.”

            John rolled away from Sherlock, embarrassment coursing through him. He closed his eyes when Sherlock leaned over him.

            “Why are you ashamed of it?” he asked.

            “I’m not. I just…don’t like to think about that day. That part of me,” John replied.

            Sherlock kissed his neck and shoulder with soft, feather light touches.  John squeezed his eyes shut when Sherlock’s tongue traced the pattern of his scar.

            “It is extraordinary that the part of you that you hate the most is part of what makes you so good,” he murmured.

            John turned. “And the worst parts of you make you who you are.”

“I’m not a good person, John,” Sherlock said as if he was admitting something huge. To him, he probably was. John only smiled.

            “I know. You enjoy your job even if you pretend you don’t. You have a morbid fascination with death and the human body and your morals are only so-so. But you know what? That makes you who you are and I wouldn’t love you without all of that. Even though some of it drives me mad,” John grinned.

            Sherlock blushed and John laughed. It was a special person who could love Sherlock Holmes and they both knew it. “You are a good man, though. You have a huge heart that you try to hide, but you are good. Don’t doubt that.” John touched Sherlock’s cheek.

He pulled Sherlock down to him and Sherlock muttered against his mouth, “We have a few hours. How do you want to spend it?”

            “Do I even need to say it?” John said roughly.

            Sherlock only nibbled on John’s neck in response. It was a short few hours.

 

            “I was planning to start with the spinal removal last, but I think we should actually do it first,” Sherlock said.

            He had his uniform on and was looking over his laminated list for the week. John hooked his mask around his neck and nodded with a slight wince.

            “Spines are messy. It’s a gross business. This is on a young man. Poor sod,” Sherlock said with a shake of his head.

            “Can’t we just skip it?” John asked but he knew the answer.

            “You know we can’t. Contracts,” Sherlock shook his dog tags without looking up.

            ‘Yeah, doesn’t make it easier,” John sighed.

            “No,” Sherlock said with a slight frown, “it doesn’t.”

 

            They found one Michael Thomas locked in his room. Sherlock sighed when he broke the door down. He was a young man. John figured around their age. John looked away.

            “Please,” the man begged, “I needed it. Please, I’ll pay I just…I just need to find some money.”

            Sherlock looked sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s too late for that.”

            The whites of the man’s eyes stood out in the dark room. Sherlock advanced and the man tried to bolt. Sherlock spun down to a crouch, catching the man’s ankles with his own so he toppled.

            “I’m sorry,” he said again as he placed his small knives at the man’s tendons and pulled. He screamed. John watched Sherlock close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them once more, steely resolve had filled them and John pulled the things they needed from his bag silently. Sherlock had told him before that spines were special and usually done alone on the night that was chosen because it was tricky. The person had to be strung upside down so the blood could drain. He would need to set up a bottle to catch the fluid while he ripped the spine free. All while the man was alive.

            The man screamed so loudly John thought he would hear it for weeks but Sherlock only grabbed the bloody ankles and pulled. The man was about John’s height and Sherlock hoisted him up easily.

            “I’m sorry,” John said as well when he helped to loop the tight leather bindings around the ankles. He howled in pain and John winced.

            “It’s only going to get worse,” Sherlock said when the man took a breath and whimpered.

            John set his stance and looked at the door. “I know.”

            Sherlock began. John watched him and saw when resolve turned to glee. He wondered what was wrong with him that he loved someone who enjoyed ripping the spines out of innocent people. He couldn’t find an answer other than Sherlock should always be happy. It was a disconcerting thought. It also didn’t last long once Sherlock has sliced the man’s back open and he was keening quietly as if hoping Sherlock would close him back up. John could see the startling white of the manufactured bone.

            “I once took one from a girl who had it put it in pink. The extra color cost her more. She died for a fad no one would see,” Sherlock said as the man went into shock.

His hands expertly pulled at the bone and then suddenly, with what John could only assume was a vicious smile, he yanked. Blood and fluid splattered them both and John turned his head. That was when he saw the man in the doorway.

            “Not a very good guard, are you John?” Moriarty asked serenely.

            Sherlock froze. John reached for his gun but Moriarty flicked his com device and it began to tick.

            “Now now boys. I’m only here to talk. It seems you’ve found me out. Oh, not fully, but enough,” he grinned, “Enough to make me offer my congratulations and to force my hand. I must extent a gift of…gratitude for making things so much less boring.”

            “No,” Sherlock said flatly.

            “You don’t even know what I’m offering,” Moriarty sounded somewhat affronted.

            “Yes I do. And no. I won’t be joining you. Neither will John,” he replied.

            John stood as still as he could and watched. Moriarty grinned widely and John saw that his gloves were stitched from female skin. He looked away.

            “I wouldn’t want Doctor Watson without you. You are my prize, Sherlock. Didn’t you know? I simply adore you,” Moriarty stepped forward and John aimed his gun at the man’s chest. The beeping intensified.

            “I work for GeneCo, you idiotic man. You think I can’t kill you without getting blood on my suit? Put that away, I’m only here to play. Won’t you let little Sherlock out?” Moriarty pouted but John didn’t lower the gun.

            “Get out, Sherlock. Run,” John said. Sherlock stared at them.

            “Oh no, showing your hand a bit there, aren’t you Doctor?” the beeping quickened and John saw a flash of red on Sherlock’s repo outfit. Sherlock stood still as a statue.  John closed his eyes and lowered the gun.

            “Good boy. Now, Sherlock dearest, I’m only giving this offer once. You can’t be allowed to continue this, you just can’t. People will get hurt,” Moriarty stepped closer to Sherlock and John stiffened. Sherlock didn’t even blink.

            “They do, everyday,” Sherlock replied finally.

            “Well, that’s what people do isn’t it? They spend too much and we have to take it back. It’s like a car or a house. Transport, isn’t that right?” he purred near Sherlock’s ear. John felt sick.

            “Don’t be jealous Johnny boy, you can have him back. For now. I can share my playthings. Just don’t break him. I have so much planned for us,” Moriarty ran his gloved finger along Sherlock’s collar and Sherlock turned away.

            “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s skin, “and now that your husband is gone and your brother so close to that ledge, you will be mine. Come out and play.”

            When he backed away John shifted so he was in front of Sherlock and Moriarty laughed. “How loyal your little lapdog is. Think about what I’m offering, boys. It could be the last thing you ever do.”

            When he was gone, Sherlock sagged to the floor landing in the growing puddle of blood. John followed him.

            “Are you okay?” he asked frantically.

            Sherlock nodded numbly.

            “Are you sure?” John pressed.

            “Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m fine. Come here,” Sherlock said suddenly. He yanked John to him and held tightly. John sat rigid for a moment before melting into the embrace. He closed his eyes.

            “What are we going to do?” he asked against the skin Moriarty had touched. Sherlock bared his throat and John ran his tongue over the spot thoughtlessly. He wanted to wipe away the memory of the phantom touch.

            “I don’t know,” Sherlock said, “I don’t know.”

            John sat back. “We’ll work it out. Just…don’t leave me behind.”

            Sherlock grasped John’s neck. “Never,” he said resolutely.

            Blood was dripping down John’s back from the corpse strung up behind him and Moriarty had shaken him to his core but all he could do was stare into the blue of his partner’s eyes and hope he wasn’t lying. Resting his head on Sherlock’s, he sighed.

            “Okay. Let’s just go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm curious, how do you think the story is going? I love the comments you guys leave and I want to hear about the progress! Think we're headed in the right direction?
> 
> Also, would anyone be interested in a superwholock fic after this one? 
> 
> Thanks or reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans begin on all sides. No one trusts each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took longer but it's my final week of classes and I'm setting up for my last classes of the year, so I've been busy.
> 
> not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

“You went to Sherlock? Do you want to get us killed?” Irene leaned in and Molly shrunk back.

            “We need his help. This isn’t going to work. Besides, he thinks we’re both stupid! Idiotic and a waste of space. Do you really think he’ll waste time on us? He wants the company and Sherlock. I’m helping us get out of this deal you dragged us into!” Molly stared with wide eyes at Irene, begging her to understand.

            “He will kill us if we aren’t careful. He’s brilliant!” Irene hissed.

            Molly wrenched herself free from Iren and pushed past her. “I know what I’m doing,” she said resolutely.

            “I hope so,” Irene said with furious fear.

 

            John woke to someone banging on the front door. He groaned and rolled over. Sherlock wasn’t in bed. John didn’t have time to think about where he was when Lestrade burst into the room.

            “Greg!” he yelped in surprise, pulling the sheet over his body.

            “Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade asked quickly.

            “I don’t know, I just woke up. He isn’t here?” John asked.

            Lestrade shook his head. “Mycroft got a call this morning from him. Said something about Moriarty and his plans. Mycroft can’t find either of them now. We need to find Sherlock before he does something stupid.”

            John threw the sheet off and stood naked in front of Lestrade while he reached for his pants.

            “Have you checked with Molly? He spoke to her not too long ago,” John shrugged into a silk shirt, leaving it open so his dog tags could be read.

            Lestrade nodded. “She hasn’t seen him. We gave her a guard just in case. We know how Sherlock is with people. We don’t want anyone to get hurt just because they spoke to him.”

            John nodded as he swung his old gun around his side and attached Sherlock’s gun to the holster on his side.

            “So you know about Moriarty?” he asked once he was dressed. Lestrade nodded.

            “He’s insane,” John said darkly.

            “Yes, Mycroft had always hoped he would simply mellow. He’s brilliant. I think he wanted him around because he reminded him of Sherlock. I can’t say what he thinks now, but not knowing where either of them are has made him nervous, though he won’t say it. I figured we’d start at GeneCo. Moriarty hasn’t been back to his quarters since last night,” Lestrade said.

            “How did you know about that?” John moved into the front of the flat and efficiently moved piles of papers and petri dishes to find his gloves.

            “We monitor all of you, of course. Those dog tags aren’t just so people know you work for GeneCo; they monitor things like heart rate and blood pressure. All three of yours spiked and we could hone in on the location. You were all together. Mycroft put it all together once we gave him the report. I didn’t know he’d asked Sherlock to look into it. I would have told him not to. He put you all in danger.”

            John smiled at the righteous anger in Lestrade’s voice.

            “We said we would do it. Don’t punish him too much over this. I do appreciate it, though. Good to know someone is on our side. Most people just wish Sherlock would go away, they don’t try to find him,” John said.

            Lestrade gestured to the door.

            “I’ve known Sherlock for nearly 5 years. People who see him now think he’s a monster but really, he’s just a brilliant young man who lost the only person who understood. Until he met you,” Lestrade said. John followed him down the steps and out the door.

            Irene Adler’s voice boomed from the advertisement screens where she gave the dates of the next opera.

            “Yes, well, it’s just good that someone else notices,” John flushed.

            Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder as they turned to head to GeneCo. John gave him a fleeting smile and walked on.

 

            Sherlock wasn’t at GeneCo. Sherlock was actually in the one place no one thought to look. The basement flat of his own home. He knew Mycroft would know who was behind the subtle attacks just by having them all in the same room. He also knew Moriarty would know that Mycroft knew. No one would get to Mycroft without his consent but that didn’t mean everyone else wasn’t in danger. Sherlock was hiding out and waiting for Molly Hooper. He heard John leave with Lestrade and was grateful for it. If John was heading to GeneCo, he would be safe. Mycroft never let his fiancée go anywhere without a guard.

            Sherlock plucked at the mold on the siding until he heard someone enter the flat. Two people. Both female. He smiled grimly. So Molly had brought Irene. Probably not of her own accord. He waited.

            “Do you know how hard it is to slip your brother’s guards?” Molly said as she strutted down the stairs.

            Irene wrinkled her nose at the slightly damp smell in the smaller flat as she followed.

            “Oh yes. Which means you didn’t slip them at all. They probably called Mycroft and he made it seem like they did. He’s not stupid, my brother,” Sherlock said, unfolding himself from the floor.

            “You only call him your brother when he’s bested you in some way,” Irene said serenely.

            If Sherlock had been a child, he would have stuck his tongue out. As it was, his face wrinkled and he frowned. “Well no doubt they know you’re here. Maybe even Moriarty knows.”

            Irene flinched and Molly only smiled slightly.

            “You didn’t work that out,” Irene snapped harshly.

            “No, sadly. He came to me before he could. Threatened my life and John’s. I suppose he knows I don’t take well to threats,” Sherlock replied.

            “So that’s why I have such a heavy guard lately,” Molly said.

            “Yes. Mycroft knows of course. Moriarty is gone. Which makes me wonder, why aren’t you?” he peered at Irene with a searching gaze.

            “I am hardly a main component of this operation,” she scoffed.

            “And you’d have to think I’m the stupid one to believe that,” Sherlock said.

            Molly bit the inside of her lip and chewed. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to her. “That’s a bad habit, Molly.” She stopped.

            “You had to be in on in from the start. You and Jim are the heirs to the company which usually means you’d fight one another but since GeneCo has leveled out, neither of you has been at the heart of any major scandal. The knee jerk to that is that you like each other but that’s not true. Anyone who pays attention to you two will notice that you don’t like one another but simply as weary. So why no problems? Simple. You’re both too smart. You both want the company but Jim thought it up first. So maybe you’ve been planning all along to take over once he gets into position or maybe you simply don’t mind being the understudy, but you two have been working together. The only reason you’re here is because Molly is. Just because you don’t love her doesn’t mean you want her dead. So, the real question is, whose side are you really on?” Sherlock’s lips quirked up into a grin when Irene blinked at him and Molly began to bite her lip again.

            Irene opened her mouth but Sherlock stopped her. He stepped close to her and stared down.

            “Don’t lie to me,” he said softly.

            Irene licked her lips. She took a moment to take in his face and her mind raced. She could remember when Sherlock was just aloof. Not someone to fear but someone people avoided all the same. She remembered his youth and his calm demeanor with Victor. She also remembered how he’d threatened a man at uni who made a passing comment about Victor being a poof. Sherlock was a dangerous man when the people he loved were threatened and Moriarty was the ultimate threat. She seemed to come to terms with herself and straightened her spine.

            “I’m on your side. I am an opportunist but I’m not insane. Jim is…worse than I thought at the start. I calculated the risk badly. I’m afraid I do need your help,” she said carefully.

            Molly beamed. Sherlock’s eyes searched her face before he nodded with satisfaction.

            “So what’s the plan?” Molly asked anxiously.

            Sherlock smiled. “I’ve got a plan, but we need to make sure it will work.”

            The three young people leaned in close to one another, discussing their options.

 

            On the other side of London in an abandoned building, Jim Moriarty organized his gloves lovingly.

            “Boss, what’s the plan?” a large man reclined on a broken furnace asked.

            “A fall,” Moriarty said shortly.

            “A fall?” the other man asked dubiously.

            “Oh yes, Seb, a fall. I owe them a fall. Humpty Dumpty, my dear. We cause a fall; they won’t be able to piece it back together. I thought she could be useful alive, but dead…well she’s worth so much more dead,” Moriarty smiled. It was terrifying.

            Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s true right hand man, simply smiled in return and nodded. He might not fully understand, but he could cause a fall without a problem. He watched his boss pull on a thick set of human gloves. While Moriarty flexed his fingers, Sebastian began to plan. Their partnership was an easy one.

            They didn’t find Sherlock at GeneCo. They didn’t find him in the store. They didn’t find him in the back alley, though they did find the Grave Robber. He smiled at them with perfect teeth.

            “The repo man’s assistant and the leader’s love. Looking for your lovers?” he asked eloquently.

            “Only one of them,” Lestrade said.

            The Grave Robber stared at them, wiping his hair out of his face. “Ah. The repo man. Haven’t seen him around here. Though I have seen the pretty faces of your lovely company.”

            John pursed his lips. “Irene and Molly.”

            The Grave Robber inclined his head. Lestrade sighed. “Of course. He probably didn’t even leave the flat. He just wanted us to think he did,” he said.

            John nodded and turned on his heels. The Grave Robber called after him. “There’s a war coming, you know. Be careful not to lose your head. This is no fairy tale. We all bleed.”

John turned back but the man was gone. Lestrade sighed once more and said, “Let’s go back. I need to get home soon. Mycroft is stressing out about all of this.”

“I can’t see why,” John said sarcastically.

Lestrade made a face and began to make longer strides to get back to Baker Street. John rolled his eyes and followed the man’s back.

 

By the time John walked in the door of Baker Street, Sherlock was on the couch wearing only trousers with a sour look on his face.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” John shot back.

“I have been here. It’s hardly my fault you didn’t really look. Did you go looking for me?” Sherlock scoffed.

John collapsed into his seat after he’d dropped his guns on the table. He shrugged out of his shirt and sighed heavily. “Yes. Met the Grave Robber.”

“Did he tell you about the coming war?” Sherlock asked with amusement.

“Yes,” John said.

“He’s been saying that for years. Though this time, I believe he’s actually right. I met with our allies today. I do believe they are on our side but we should be careful. Neither one of them are people to mess with or to trust explicitly.”

John nodded and Sherlock stood. He leaned over John’s armchair and smiled. “What?” John asked.

“Nothing. Just go check the bedroom.”

John stood and Sherlock watched him trudge to the bedroom. When he heard the exclamation, he laughed and followed it back into the flat. John stood next to the new air conditioner Mycroft’s men had brought over with a large smile on his face. Sherlock grinned back, hiding his worry in his partner’s joy. When John hugged him, he ignored the nagging feeling that something was off and simply hugged back. He would take contentment as it came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. As always, I love your comments so feel free to drop by and leave me some! Good or bad :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly discuss trust and Moriarty threatens Irene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late yet again. Been doing school work and making plans for the future. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own. I'll probably need to go through it again later, but I just wanted to get it posted!

Mycroft couldn’t understand why he hadn’t found Jim Moriarty yet. He could see practically every building in London and still, the man was a no show. It was frankly appalling and it was driving him crazy. He watched multiple screens at once and well into the night, he went over the GeneCo reports. He had two weeks until the last opera before contracts came back up and he just knew something would happen if he wasn’t careful. He called Sherlock and John into the office when he was at his wits end.

            “Mycroft,” Sherlock greeted. As always, John hovered by his partner and took in the room. Mycroft found John to be a delightful conundrum for his brother. He protected Sherlock with a single minded attention that could make even the most resolute enemy waver and he somehow not only tolerated Sherlock, but loved him. Mycroft gave John his equivalent of a warm smile. John inclined his head and relaxed somewhat.

            “You haven’t found him yet,” Sherlock said.

            “Regrettably, no,” Mycroft replied.

            “Don’t you monitor everything?” John asked irritably.

            Mycroft leveled a gaze at John that spoke volumes. Sherlock smirked when John didn’t back down. Finally, Mycroft sighed.

            “He knows what we monitor so he knows how to hide. I’m afraid we simply can’t find him.”

            “You want me to find him,” Sherlock said duly and John stiffened. Mycroft shook his head.

            “That would probably be a suicide mission for you. No, I want you to be careful. From what you’ve told me about Ms. Adler and Ms. Hooper, there’s more to this than just them. It is good that you’ve managed to convince them to work with us instead of against us but we all need to be more careful,” Mycroft said.

            “I didn’t do anything. Molly convinced Irene,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “Well you need to keep them,” Mycroft snapped.

            “I know that,” Sherlock shot back.

            “Boys,” John said quietly, “not now.”

            “Right. Just keep them with us without giving them too much,” Mycroft said after he’d cleared his throat, “We need them but we know Irene. She’ll play both sides until the day she dies. We don’t need to lose everything in a moment of weakness.”

            “I was the one who told you not to trust Irene Adler. I’m still not sure why you made her the heir of GeneCo to begin with,” Sherlock said but it was with a sulking tone.

            “There are many things you don’t understand, Sherlock. I don’t need to tell you, either,” Mycroft said coolly.

            Sherlock snorted and turned sharply to the door. “If that’s all Mycroft, I have an enemy to find.”

            “I’m serious, Sherlock. Be careful,” Mycroft said as Sherlock pushed open the door. John followed with a small frown.

            “We should be careful,” he said when they had reached the elevator.

            “I know. It’s just interesting to wind him up.”

            “You’re a git,” John said with a snort.

            “But you agree it’s fun,” Sherlock chortled.

            John didn’t speak but his chin dipped slightly. Sherlock grinned.

            “This is serious, isn’t it?” John asked as they left the building.

            Sherlock turned serious in a blink of an eye and nodded gravely. “We do need to be careful. I can’t have you getting hurt,” he said.

John blinked up at Sherlock. He spoke with such surety, making John seem like the only thing he was worried about, Maybe he was the only thing Sherlock wanted to keep safe.

“You need to be safe too,” John said.

Sherlock gave him a vague smile.

“Sherlock,” John started.

“I know, John. I know. I’ll be safe, don’t worry,” he said but his eyes danced away from John’s and John took his hand.

“Okay,” he said quietly. Sherlock looked at their linked hands in surprise. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and smiled slightly. They continued on back to Baker Street and the jobs that needed to get done.

 

Irene jumped when Moriarty appeared behind her. H tsked. She made her face into a mask of indifference.

“How did you get in?” she asked conversationally.

“A good con man never tells his secrets. Did you do what I told you to do?” he asked as he stalked toward her.

“Yes,” her voice didn’t waver.

“I’ve heard you did more than what I asked,” he mused.

“What did you hear?” she turned, her favored whip in her hand.

He grabbed the weapon and pulled it from her hands before crowding her against the wall.

“I heard you went to the Holmes brothers. You’re seeking a way out.”

She shook her head, denying the knowledge.

“I’m only playing him. Letting him think he has us,” she said.

He smiled coolly and ran his gloved finger down her cheek.

“I might be inclined to believe you, but I don’t believe your lovely little canary,” he purred.

“Nightingale,” she whispered before turning away.

“Yes. Beautiful little creature. How sad it will be when she takes a fall. She’s become too troublesome, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Not Molly. I’ll fix it,” Irene pleaded, “We’re just playing the game. I’ll make sure she knows it.”

Moriarty smiled. “Oh Ms. Adler, what an amazing partner you are. I’d be delighted if you helped our china doll to seal her lips. Wouldn’t want to lose such pretty singing.”

Irene ran her tongue over her lips and stared at him.

“Now promise me, Irene. Promise me you’ll make this right or Molly will have such a terrible tumble. And doesn’t she had such lovely hands?”

Irene nodded quickly. He patted her cheek. “Good girl,” he said.

As suddenly as he’d been there, he was gone and Irene leaned on her vanity while she thought. Things were about to get complicated.

 

Molly was waiting for Sherlock at 221B. She’d broken in. When the door opened, she heard someone slam into the wall and she smirked. She was sitting in John’s chair with her lean legs crossed. She folded her hands together and waited.

“Mmmph, I love you,” she heard Sherlock pant. That surprised her but she didn’t make a sound.

“Love you too. Come on. Bed,” John said. The words were muffled as if they were spoken against Sherlock’s skin.

Molly felt a slight burst of jealously but she simply smiled to herself. She’d always hoped that Sherlock was one of the people who like her, enjoyed both sexes equally. She knew it was a slim hope. Sherlock wasn’t much for people in general. He chose a single person and latched on with disconcerting abandon. First Victor and then John, he showed his staggering ability to settle into a relationship that would hopefully be for life while treating every other person with odd indifference.

When the footsteps hit the stairs she heard Sherlock’s breathy laugh and John’s answering grunt before they fell through the doorway.

Neither of them saw her and instead, John tried to push Sherlock down the hall. Not for the first time, Molly wondered about living away from the GeneCo headquarters. She’d been up for a job at the morgue but instead had been used for her voice. If she’d worked in the morgue, she would have had the freedom to live like Sherlock did. Away from the white walls and spying cameras. She cleared her throat when Sherlock ripped John’s shirt fully open.

Both men froze.

“While I would love a show, I’m here on business and I don’t have much time,” she drawled.

Sherlock’s eyes found hers and she swallowed at his dark, desire filled gaze. It took her a wild moment to remember that the look was for John. His eyes cleared somewhat but he didn’t release John. John, for his credit, didn’t step back from Sherlock but instead growled low in his throat and stared at Molly with blatant possession. She couldn’t help but smile sourly. Sherlock had managed to find someone as possessive as he was. John had shifted his body so he stood between his partner and the young woman in their living room. Not only possessive but protective.

“Oh relax, Doctor Watson, I’m not here to hurt you,” she laughed.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice thick with desire and a hint of amusement, “Stand down. She’s not here to hurt us.”

“But she’s ruining my mood,” John complained in a very out of character whine.

Sherlock chuckled and kissed John swiftly before letting him go and turning to Molly. Molly beamed. Sherlock wasn’t fooled.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing. That’s just it. Nothing’s happened. He should know, but he hasn’t done anything. I’m afraid the plan won’t work. I’m nervous,” Molly shrugged.

“So you’ve come here because of nerves?” Sherlock’s voice arched with disbelief.

Molly shifted in the chair and John glared at her until she gave up.

“I think Irene is playing both sides.”

Sherlock smirked. “Irene is a smart girl and I’m sure she’s playing both sides. The fact that she thinks she can play me shows she’s slipping or she truly wants to help us. Either way, I planned for this.”

Molly’s eyes widened.

“Oh don’t play dumb. It’s unbecoming. You’re far more clever than your lady love and we both know it. It’s delightful. Now, tell me why you came to me with this,” Sherlock said.

Molly flushed and then grinned. “And people wonder why I like you,” she laughed.

John made a low sound in his throat and Molly smiled at him. “Don’t worry, doctor, I know when I’ve been beaten.”

“Yes and you enjoy it. Now get on with it,” Sherlock snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Molly grimaced. “I know you’re playing us both. I don’t like not knowing the real plan. I know I’m not privy to Irene’s plan and I know my information has put me on the front line of whatever this is and I don’t like it. I don’t know if I should trust you and I know I can’t trust Irene so here I am.”

“I wouldn’t trust me either,” Sherlock commented.

“I don’t,” Molly said frankly, “but I trust you more than her at this moment. You only have on side. Your own. Make no mistake, I know the only people you care about are you and John. I won’t get in the way of that, I just want to have a fighting chance.”

Sherlock smiled. “Bravo. I was correct. You are far more clever than you let on.”

She smiled ruefully. “I could have been a doctor. I could have been anything. This is what life gave me. At first I cursed it, but now, well it’s a good cover isn’t it? The mockingbird, the Queen of GeneCo. I get to see it all and no one ever bothers to think of me. It’s marvelous to be so looked over when there’s something big going on.”

“Why do you think I’m a repo agent?” Sherlock asked.

Molly laughed. “Oh, I know there are a few reasons.”

John snorted. “So you want Sherlock’s help?” he asked.

“I want both of your help,” Molly replied as she turned to face him.

“By not telling you, I am helping,” Sherlock said.

“I’d be more comfortable if I knew,” Molly sighed.

“But you know I won’t tell you. You just want to know I’m on your side. I can’t say I’m on anyone’s side but my own as you so eloquently said but you can know, Molly Hooper, that I will do my best to keep deaths to a minimum.”

Molly stood. “I know you love your job, Sherlock. Don’t forget that I know that. You might not remember, but you cut out your own heart in the hopes of leaving love behind. Everyone thinks it’s an ode to love but it’s a statement on forgetting, isn’t it?” Molly stood close to his chest and looked up at him. Sherlock flinched.

“But now you have someone you love. You also have a job you enjoy. You’re teetering on the edge. I know you could join him. I also know you won’t because of John. Only because of John. You know that Jim only truly wants you. He doesn’t need your partner. He’d rather you be vulnerable. So you won’t. Which means you’re on my side. We’re the same in this. You keep telling me to stop lying. How about you stop lying to yourself?” Sherlock took a step back as she spoke.

“Get out,” John said, his voice shallow and deep.

She turned to him in mild surprise. “John…”

“Get out of our flat now. We’re helping you. He’s helping you. You have no right to say those things. You know nothing about him or about us. Least of all about the past. Now get out,” he snarled.

She stumbled back. She’d thought Moriarty was intimidating. She was terrified of Mycroft but looking at John with his blue eyes hard and his scar spanning across his shoulder, he was not a person to mess with. He had his hand on his gun holster and she rushed to the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “I’m just….”

John didn’t soften but he nodded curtly, “I know. Now go.”

She tripped down the stairs and John thought it was the first time he’d ever seen Molly be less than graceful. He turned to Sherlock when the door slammed shut. Sherlock looked stunned.

“Are you alright?” he asked, moving to his partner’s side.

“She was right,” Sherlock said faintly.

“What?” John said with a small frown.

“She was right. All of it was right. If it weren’t for you…” Sherlock turned with wide eyes, “If it weren’t for you I’d be lost.”

John wasn’t used to Sherlock’s naked vulnerability. The man spouted feelings like he spouted facts. He spoke of Victor and their life as if it had happened to someone else and the only truly emotional thing he said to John was the simple words “I love you” usually spoken when they were in the height of sexual connections. John wrapped his arms around the thin man’s waist and Sherlock curled around him. He was shaking and John hated Molly in that moment.

“It doesn’t matter,” John said harshly, “It doesn’t. We’re here now. You never ask about my shoulder and I don’t ask about Victor because it doesn’t matter.”

“I know about your shoulder,” Sherlock argued weakly.

“Because Molly told you. She’s too clever for her own good,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes going out of focus, “And I believe if we aren’t careful, it will get her killed.”

 

Jim Moriarty watched Molly Hooper pull her hood up as she hurried through the dirty streets of London.

“You should’ve worked in the morgue, Ms. Hooper. You wouldn’t have ended up in one so early that way,” he mused to himself.

She took a convoluted way back to GeneCo and Moriarty turned away, interested more in Baker Street and the repo agent that lived there.

 

Sherlock was stunning when he ripped out organs. At least, John thought so. He watched Sherlock flawlessly cut into the young woman’s chest and felt himself flush when his long fingers wrapped around a pale rib. The woman’s mouth gaped open and her body arched in the way that John had grown used to. The body’s final moment of beauty, he found.  It wasn’t normal to find a man beautiful while he pulled out the heart of another human being but as Sherlock ruthlessly ripped the heart free of its cavity and the blood poured onto his hands, John could feel his breath catch.  It was their final job of the night and Sherlock’s dark repo outfit clung to him. The girl was open; her eyes glassy in her death and John only had eyes for Sherlock. Sherlock who he could tell was grinning as he turned the heart over in his hands before depositing it in his bag.

“Time to go home,” Sherlock said as he pushed the bag into his jacket.

“Thank god,” John said, his voice thick with lust.

Sherlock laughed. “It was a lucky day for me when I found you, Doctor Watson,” he said, “Now let’s drop this stuff off so we can go to bed.”

John grinned, ignoring the body on the floor in favor of watching Sherlock rise gracefully to his feet. They left the building, never seeing the tall and thick army man watching them.

 

Molly had let herself into her quarters only to find Irene lounging on her couch.

Irene was stunning in bright red. Thick and thin straps covered her body, giving view of so much flesh while hiding everything someone would want to see. She turned with a twisted smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“It seems you’ve been naughty,” Irene murmured.

“Irene?” Molly said nervously.

“I’ve told you…it’s just a game. You have to play every angle. Never put everything in one basket. You’ve gotten us in trouble,” Irene stood. She had a clawed whip in one hand and a small knife in the other.

“Irene…” Molly’s voice turned to a beg.

“I’m sorry my Queen, I truly am. You are stunning without the marks I could leave on your body but he needs reassurance and I can’t let us be killed,” Irene apologized coldly.

Irene backed Molly against the wall. Molly winced when Irene ran the whip along her arm.

“I’ll try to make you enjoy it,” Irene purred as she curled her fingers in between Molly’s legs. The knife was tucked into one of the straps and Molly looked at it with fear only to moan when Irene curled her fingers closer to Molly’s warmth.

“Irene, please,” Molly began to pant.

Neither of them knew what she was begging for. Neither tried to examine it. Irene pushed Molly’s skirt down and began to kiss Molly’s neck.

“I’m sorry, my darling, it needs to be done,” Irene murmured.

When Irene’s fingers found their way into Molly’s wet warmth, both women groaned. Irene rubbed against Molly’s body and Molly moaned as their breasts rubbed together.

“Tease,” Molly gasped as Irene’s mouth found Molly’s collar bone.

Irene pushed into Molly roughly so Molly’s breath stuttered. “Sometimes,” she said.

“More,” Molly moaned.

“Later,” Irene said. She couldn’t get distracted from the job she needed to do.

As Molly’s back arched, Irene let go of the smaller woman and pulled the small knife from the straps on her body. She winced for a moment before bringing the knife to Molly’s throat. As Molly’s body finished its crescendo, Irene slashed. Molly screamed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are lovely! Thank you so much for reading :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene is taken into custody and Sherlock makes an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end! Again, I'm sorry for the late posting but this chapter took some time and planning. 
> 
> not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Molly slouched to the floor, her hands up and around her neck. Irene had cut a perfect X into the smooth skin of Molly’s throat. Irene stumbled back and dropped the knife, tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Blood dripped down her arms and onto her pale skin.

Molly choked.

“You’ll live. I didn’t cut too deep. I’m so sorry,” Irene struggled to say.

“They’ll…come,” Molly managed to gasp out around the blood in her hands and the slash in her throat.

Irene nodded. She seemed unable to move. Molly looked at her and Irene flinched. There was betrayal and pain but also compassion. That was what Irene couldn’t take. She shook her head to clear it. She’d done what she had to do. She knew Molly could see it but it didn’t make it any better.

“Go,” Molly choked, “get away.”

Irene shook her head wildly. Molly closed her eyes. When the door burst open neither woman was surprised. Molly was taken away quickly and Irene was slammed against the wall. When her hands were tied behind her back, she simply closed her eyes and allowed it to happen. At least Molly would live.

 

Molly was taken to Mycroft. They’d patched up her throat and made her sit in his office while he looked over some papers. She shivered. Betrayal made you cold, she found.

“Ms. Hooper,” Mycroft greeted, “I’m glad to see you survived.”

Molly nodded slowly.

“I’ve heard some…distressing things about you,” he said.

Molly began to shake. He smiled falsely at her. “I’ve also heard some rather interesting things from the brother. What I’m wondering, is who to believe?”

Molly glared. She cleared her throat and winced. “I think it’s safe to say I’m on your side,” she said as she brought her hand up to touch the bandage on her throat.

“It isn’t safe to say anything in this world, Ms. Hooper,” Mycroft replied.

“Just talk to Sherlock,” she peered up at him with wide eyes.

Mycroft laughed. “My brother was right not to underestimate you. For the record, the simpering victim act won’t work on me any more than it works on him.”

Molly leaned back and winced once more. Her throat hurt. “Fine then. But you should still ask your brother. I’m getting the short end of the stick in each of these scenarios.”

“Which you might deserve for playing us all so well,” Mycroft said.

Molly laughed and it was wheezing sound with the bandage around her neck. “Oh please. You let me play you. A pretty girl with a good voice who looks good in a dress. That’s all I was to you, so that’s what I became. Even Irene didn’t notice right away. As if you didn’t know I always wanted more than this company has given me.”

“Is that what he promised you?” Mycroft asked, his body suddenly imposing on her space.

She shook her head mutely. Mycroft was imposing when he needed to be.

“Then what was it?” Mycroft asked. It was easy for Mycroft to be terrifying without shouting. He stared with icy eyes and Molly remembered Irene laughing when Moriarty had first come to them. She’d said Jim called Mycroft “the Iceman” and Sherlock “the virgin”. She’d laughed because Sherlock was clearly not a virgin but Mycroft was in course, the iceman. He’d have to be to run the company. Now, he leaned over Molly with cool indifference and waited.

“It was nothing, really. He promised money. He promised world fame. Mostly, he promised I could have…” she trailed off.

“You could have Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed.

He’d known Molly Hooper was in love with his step brother. He’d known it for as long as he’d known her. He also knew Irene Adler felt the same. Many people were fascinated by Sherlock and many fancied themselves in love with the man even through his indifference and annoyance at the populace. Sherlock would have made a wonderful face of GeneCo beside Molly Hooper and Mycroft knew it. He couldn’t force Sherlock into that, though. He had instead given him a better option. An option to ride the night, become a nightmare, a thing of dreams. He’d taken it, even though Mycroft had made it clear he could have more. Not the company, never the company Sherlock wouldn’t want the company even if it was promised to him, but he could have been so much more. All dashing dark hair and cool skin with intelligent disdain. People ate that up, but Sherlock didn’t want it and though Mycroft could hold many things over Sherlock, he couldn’t find it in himself to force Sherlock into something he would so sorely hate.

The fact that Jim Moriarty was promising Sherlock to people who would no doubt never get him unnerved Mycroft. Moriarty himself had an odd obsession with the repo agent and had made passing comments about the tight clothing Mycroft’s brother wore and how beautiful he must look painted in blood. No doubt Moriarty’s offer for Sherlock hadn’t been extended to John and no doubt, Moriarty only wanted Sherlock for himself. Such promises made people fall in line, but nothing worked better than fear. If Moriarty could make Irene Adler afraid enough to cut the throat of her nightingale, they were all in deeper trouble than he thought.

He sighed and rubbed his hand along his forehead.

            “He promised you Sherlock,” he said.

            She nodded slowly. “Not for forever. I knew I wouldn’t get him forever. I know he promised Irene the same thing…but it’s hard not to say yes to the thing you’ve wanted for such a long time.”

            “Do you truly think he could give you Sherlock?” Mycroft asked almost kindly.

            Molly shrugged. Mycroft tried a different tactic.

            “Did you really think Sherlock would do anything he didn’t want to do?”

            Molly smiled slightly. “No, but I could hope, couldn’t I?”

            Mycroft shook his head and sighed. “And in the end you’re the same as all the rest. You disappoint me, Ms. Hooper.”

            Molly closed her eyes for a moment before blowing out a labored breath. “You don’t trust me.”

            “I trust no one,” Mycroft said.

            She stood. “That’s not true. You trust Lestrade and you trust your brother. Which means you also trust John Watson. They’re good men to trust, just be careful. My life might not mean much to you, but I know theirs do.”

            Mycroft didn’t bother to answer her. They both knew it was true. Mycroft knew he had only a slight hint of control over the situation and he would use it to protect the men he cared about.

            “Sherlock and John take care of each other,” Mycroft said to her back. She turned back to him with a small smile.

            “And who takes care of you?” she asked.

            Greg popped into his mind. He never thought he’d fall in love. He wasn’t the type of person who did. But then he’d met Greg and Greg was happy and kind and he didn’t shed away from Mycroft’s personality. Gregory Lestrade was his John.

            “You will come back for the opera,” he managed to say before she was out the door.  Two guards flanked her and she smiled. It was flirtatious and sweet and even with her neck bandaged, she was sinful.

            “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mr. Holmes,” she purred, once more in her character.

            He shook his head as she left. The war was beginning and everyone needed to be in character. He straightened out his jacket and went back to his desk. He had plans to make.

 

 

            Sherlock was worried. John could see it in every move he made. He pretended he wasn’t when he knew John was looking but in the moments in between, John could see it. Sherlock didn’t like being out of the control and the entire situation they were in put them in an unstable position. Sherlock didn’t like things like that. One wrong step and they could both end up in a terrible place.

            As they lay on the couch, both shirtless, Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s shoulder and hummed.

            “What?” John asked.

            “You should leave London,” Sherlock said quietly.

            John shot up in his spot, his elbow finding Sherlock’s stomach so the man grunted below him.

            “What?” he growled, turning to face Sherlock.

            “You should leave. Go somewhere safer. I’m sure Mycroft could find you some place. The states, Africa. Anywhere but here,” Sherlock stated.

            John stared and felt fury, confusion and fear sink into his chest. “Why?” he managed to ask.

            “There’s a war coming, John,” Sherlock ran a single finger along John’s face as if trying to memorize him. John could see the fear in his eyes.

            “It’s a war I can’t control. People are going to die. That’s what people do. But it can’t be you. I’ve just found you. I’ve just remembered what it can feel like to love someone again. And I love you, I do. Which means you shouldn’t be here. You should go. Be safe somewhere else.”

            John stared with wide eyes. “And leave you?” he whispered.

            Sherlock closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at the pain John was showing. He couldn’t see the devotion or he’d back down.

            “Yes. Go. Now. Go to GeneCo. Go to Lestrade. Go anywhere that isn’t here,” Sherlock said.

            “Sherlock,” John warbled, “don’t do this.”

            “Go, John. I can’t do this with you here. I can’t sacrifice you for this,” Sherlock said. He steepled his fingers under his chin and watched John.

            “You’ll join him without me,” John said.

            “No,” Sherlock shook his head, “No, I will never join him. But I can’t fight him when he threatens you with each breath he takes. My head will be clear without you here.”

            John shut his eyes and thought it through. He couldn’t leave Sherlock but he could leave Baker Street. Sherlock needed the illusion of power to work out the problem. If John only left for his old flat, he could watch out for Sherlock without actually leaving London.

            “You don’t want me to go,” John couldn’t help but argue.

            Sherlock looked at John pleadingly. He didn’t say a word. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s.

            “You don’t have to do everything alone,” he said softly.

            Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair and let his sigh dance across John’s skin.

            “I know. But this, I do. I can’t let you get hurt. I’ve put you in enough danger just asking you to work with me. It’s a weakness because we both love it, but this? I can’t let this happen and with you there, as something he could take from me, it makes us both weak. He only wants me, so that’s what he’ll get,” Sherlock said.

            “I’ll go,” John said, “But…I can’t lose you either, Sherlock. I can’t. Don’t let him do this.”

            Sherlock smiled at John for a first time since they started the conversation. “I’m not that easy to kill, John.”

            John kissed his smiling mouth, wanting a good memory to hold until the problem was over. Sherlock kissed him back fleetingly before pushing him away.

            “You must leave. Soon. Now. He’ll know when you go. He won’t follow. He’ll know I sent you away. He’ll know it’s time,” Sherlock hissed.

            Sherlock looked excited. The way he looked when he worked on the X genetic or when he found a particularly  interesting repo subject. He was invested, interested and ready for the fight. John wished he could stay by his side. But Sherlock knew he would go, Sherlock had asked and John knew he was right. For once, they would be stronger apart. John rose from his spot on the couch.

            “This has been the best few months, my dear doctor,” Sherlock said suddenly.

            John turned in the doorway. He wouldn’t take anything but his gun. He’d placed Sherlock’s gun on the table when they’d come in and he didn’t pick it up. “And there will be plenty more, won’t there?”

            Sherlock gave him the ghost of a smile before closing his eyes. “All in time, love, all in time.”

            John was reassured by the words. He nodded and left the flat without comment. He would go back to where he’d lived before. Squat in a flat for a while. He’d done it before. He could do it again. He had money if he only scanned his dog tags at the stores. He could survive. Though he and Sherlock shared an account, he was the one who used the money most. Sometimes, John wondered how Sherlock had ever survived without a flat mate. He didn’t seem to care about taking care of himself. He was thinking about calling Lestrade to let him know he’d left the flat when hands reached around him, catching his mouth. John struggled.

            “Now, now Doctor. My boss wants you alive but he didn’t say unhurt. If you don’t come with me now, I could break some of those fingers and maybe even your arm. You never know, I could be very generous. Maybe, I could even shoot your darling agent and make you watch,” a gruff voice said close to his ear.

            John stopped struggling. He felt the man laugh against his neck.

            “Very good, Doctor. Now come with me.”

            John let the faceless man pull him into the alley. He didn’t see the Grave Robber watching from the shadows. He was too busy trying to make a plan. When something hard smacked into his temple, the world went black and John felt nothing for a while.

 

            “You hit him too hard, Seb,” Moriarty complained as he waited. He loathed waiting.

            Sebastian shrugged slowly and Moriarty sighed.

            “I do hate to wait,” he said sullenly.

            Sebastian stood and strolled over to John. He lifted his head and smashed the back of his hand against John’s cheek. The man jumped. Moriarty smiled.

            “Thank you, Seb. I can count on you when it matters. Doctor Watson, how nice to see you again,” Moriarty said smoothly.

            “Can’t really say the same,” John ground out. Blood had dried in his hair and down his cheek. He found his arms were free and he reached up to rub his jaw with a frown.

            “No, I doubt you can,” Moriarty very nearly giggled.

            John looked up at him with cold eyes. He spat out a sticky mess of blood and half a tooth without a wince. Moriarty grinned.

            “Oh, very strong Doctor. Very strong indeed. I do love to break those with such strength. Or take them on,” his eyes flicked over to the man in the corner before settling back on John, “But you wouldn’t work with me even if I offered you the life of Sherlock Holmes. And I could offer it. I could give you both the lives you want if only you’d listen,” he whined, leaning forward and taking his hands from his pockets.

            “I did make sure he’d listen, once before. I worked for GeneCo when his lovely husband did. I don’t know if you knew that. Lovely man, Victor Holmes. Sickly, though. Poor man. Wasn’t faring well and dear Sherlock was beside himself trying to find a cure. I just decided to…help it along,” Moriarty grinned. John looked at his gloves. The skin was smooth and wrinkle free. There was a small scar around the ring finger on the left hand is if a ring had cut into it and left a mark.

            “He clung so hard to Sherlock’s hand in the end his ring cut into his hand. It left a wide scar,” Moriarty ran his finger along the scar on the left hand. John felt sick.

            “And of course, Sherlock believed he killed his beloved husband. His antidote, his murder. His brother made to cover it up and save Sherlock from himself. But of course we know the truth. Sherlock enjoys his job. I simply…gave him what he needed. Victor held him back. Victor gave him morals, made him forget his true nature. I worried about the same thing with you. Worried I’d have to find a way to get rid of you as well but you, you give him the strength he needed to get back to his roots. He’s ready for me now. Into the final stretch, I’d say. And so, I have a small use for you, Doctor,” Moriarty explained.

            “You killed Victor,” John said flatly.

            Moriarty laughed and Sebastian chuckled. “Of course I did! Sherlock wasn’t living to his full potential! I needed to fix that. It’s too easy to be bored and the Holmes brothers are so much more than boring. It’s exciting! Be excited, Doctor! You get to be a part of a whole new world!”

            “What do you need me for?” John asked on a growl.

            “You are Sherlock’s heart. I need you to help pull his strings. It is regrettable that he’s so invested in you. I had hoped he would simply give in to me, but then again, that would be boring, wouldn’t it?” Moriarty beamed.

            “You’re crazy,” John said.

            “You’re just getting this now?”

            “You killed his husband and took his skin. And you expect him to work with you?” John leaned back on the chair, hoping his head would stop throbbing.

            “Yes. Because that’s where you come in. You must know by now….Sherlock does not love lightly. No doubt someone told you that. I’ve heard it before from his very own brother. You are what will convince him to do what I want without struggle. I do love a willful subject, but I can’t have him trying to ruin everything on the first try. Much too dangerous. I will kill Mycroft, of course and probably you in the near future. But for now, you’re exactly what I need. Isn’t that right, Seb?”

            Sebastian smiled. “Brilliant, boss.”

            “Quite,” Moriarty smiled.

            John let his head roll back. “Sherlock won’t do those things for me. He sent me away. He doesn’t love me like you think,” he lied.

            “And if you really believe that you’re a whole lot dumber than I thought. And I do believe that you are quite stupid,” Moriarty laughed.

            John glared when he said, “You can try it, but Sherlock won’t do what you want. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

            Moriarty sighed. He looked up at Sebastian. “I’m bored,” he said mildly.

            The last thing John remembered was the feeling of a fist coming down on his head and Moriarty’s smile.

 

            Irene stared at the bland wall blankly. She’d slit the throat of the one person she cared about who cared back. There was really nothing left he could do to her that would make it worse. She was locked in a cell and she didn’t care. Her hair was wild and she wore nothing but the tight, strapped outfit that was now drenched in the blood of the woman she cared for. When she’d asked for new clothing, they’d laughed.

            “Well, you look terrible,” Sherlock commented from the other side of the cell.

            “What do you want?” she asked dully.

            “Well first off, what are you wearing?” he asked, sounding appalled.

            “It’s….never mind. They wouldn’t give me something else,” she said.

            He was wearing his heavy wool coat and he looked furious. The guard beside the door eyed Sherlock with distrust but Sherlock pulled out his tags so the man could look them over. Once the guard had read them and readjusted his stance, Sherlock said, “Give her something else to wear. That’s disgusting.”

            Irene didn’t know if he meant the strappy garment as a whole or the fact that she was covered in blood.

            “Orders were to leave her as she is, sir,” the guard answered stiffly.

            “Orders come from my brother. Give her this, at least,” Sherlock snapped, sliding out of his coat to hand it to the guard.

            The man didn’t take it. Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Call Mycroft. I’ll wait.”

            “Sherlock, it’s fine,” Irene said from her spot in the cell.

            “No, it isn’t. If anyone bothered to notice, you didn’t try to kill her, simply to leave a mark. Everyone here is immensely stupid and I won’t have you treated like a monster when it’s clear you’re scared out of your mind and simply did what you expected was best.”

            When she stared at him he stared right back. “I don’t need to trust you to know your motivations. Molly will be safe, or so you think, with only minimal damage. She can have it repaired. You simply needed to do it to prove your loyalty. My only question is why be loyal to a monster like him?”

            The guard had his com device to his ear and he nodded curtly.

            “You’re allowed in,” he said shortly to Sherlock who nodded, looking pleased.

            The guard pushed open the door and Sherlock shrugged out of his coat before walking into the cell. The guard closed the door but didn’t lock it. Sherlock handed his coat to Irene who took it with shaking hands.

            “It isn’t just about promises, it’s about fear. He finds your weakness and he preys on it. You know what he promised us both?” she peered up at him, her eyes going wide.

            He saw no insincerity in her, only raw emotion. He’d learned to read Irene many years before and he knew she only wished to tell him so she could hear it herself.

            “What did he promise?” he asked.

            “He promised us you,” she said. He looked startled.

            “Yes. He promised me you. Me and Molly. Together or separately if we wished. He said if he helped him, he would let us play with you. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it would happen, but he had such a convincing argument for it anyway. You would just be a special prize if it worked out. Then it got all convoluted. He wanted to kill others, to make it all worse and somewhere in that I realized we weren’t really assets, we were pieces that could be used against him so he wanted us on his side. Of course, he’s clever and he knew when I realized it so he made sure I wouldn’t run. No one counted on Molly to play her cards and change sides. She put us all in danger. If she’d followed the rules we all would live through this. I fear now that we won’t.”

            She was engulfed by is coat, the sleeves covering her hands so when she reached out to him, the cloth closed around his arm with her hands.

            “Please, just keep her safe. I can live like this, just keep her safe,” Irene begged.

            “Mr. Holmes, your brother wishes to speak with you in his office,” the guard said from his spot. Sherlock twisted to face the guard and nodded slightly before turning back to Irene.

            “I never make promises I can’t keep, you know that,” he said and Irene nodded, “But I will try my best.”

            She trembled in his coat and he gave her a rare smile.

            “Keep John safe,” she said suddenly.

            He turned back to her and she saw passion in his eyes. “I plan to.”

            She nodded and he swept back down the hall. The guard turned to her and said passively, “You have a good friend in that one.”

            “I suppose I do,” she said.

 

            “They’re calling her the woman who hunted the Queen. The woman,” Mycroft said with preamble when Sherlock entered his office.

            “How very fitting,” Sherlock said as he draped himself across a chair.

            “You gave her your coat. Mummy bought you that coat. You hardly ever take it off,” Mycroft sounded surprised.

            “You wouldn’t let her have other clothes,” Sherlock shot back.

            “Not out of anger, dear brother, but more out of logic. The opera is in a few hours. I feel this will be a night of crowning glory or terrific downfall. I need Ms. Adler there. The woman. You will escort her, of course. Since you’ve sent John away,” Sherlock flinched, “I’m sure you have good reason for it, but it can’t be helped. We can’t have Ms. Adler escorting Ms. Hooper after this incident but she needs watching. You will do it.”

            “And why not you?” Sherlock drawled.

            “Because for once, I will be escorting my fiancée. It is high time this world saw who ran it. I will not hide in the shadows and let them think any lifestyle is better than another. Greg brought it to my attention that they believed the reason  you weren’t in line for GeneCo is because you’re gay. That’s a laughable notion,” Mycroft said.

            “So you decide to bring Lestrade to the opera that is most likely going to be the most iconic and violent?” Sherlock asked.

            “You underestimate Greg,” Mycroft smirked.

            “No doubt I do. Anyone who puts up with you must have nerves of steel,” Sherlock said as he stood.

            “I could say the same for you,” Mycroft replied.

            Sherlock smirked. “Don’t let her wear red, it drains her,” he said.

            Mycroft chuckled slightly and watched his younger step brother leave his office.  Sherlock took long strides back to Baker Street. He believed John was safe. He believed he only had to look after himself and maybe Molly at the opera that night. He didn’t know what was truly coming. As he changed, across London Moriarty began his prep.

 

            “Now smile pretty, Doctor and say hi to your lovely partner. I’m sure he misses you more than he can say,” Moriarty said behind the bright light of his recording com device.

            “Tell him how much you miss him,” Sebastian goaded.

            John steeled himself and looked up into the light. With blood in his eyes and a split lip, he began to speak.

            “Sherlock…when you see this…”

 

            The dance of the opera had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love your comments and I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know how I'm doing so I can work on stuff in the future! Thank you so much for sticking with this!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opera comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! a conclusion will come, but this is the finale! I hope you've enjoyed this. I've loved writing it!
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

 

            Sherlock had never dreaded something as much as he dreaded the opera that night. Without John beside him, he feared the worst. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent him away. When the car pulled up in front of Baker Street, Molly poked her head out.

            “Come along, we don’t want to be late,” she said.

            She was in a deep navy blue gown and a long silver chain hung down where a pocket watch sat at her waist. Sherlock noticed her neck was healed but the X still stood out.

            “You didn’t get it covered up,” he commented as he slid into the car. She shrugged.

            “I didn’t see a point. I know Irene did it to keep us alive. If I covered it up I’d either be showing fear or proving that I’m not on his side.”

            “Clever,” Sherlock smirked.

            “So do I get to know the rest of the plan?”

            “It’s easy. You sing, get off the stage and if he manages to get to you, you pretend nothing’s happening. I told Irene I’d try to keep you alive. I’d like to be able to,” Sherlock said.

            “I would too. So I shouldn’t say anything? Do anything?”

            They pulled up to GeneCo and Sherlock shook his head. “Any wrong move could get you killed. Just do what I say.”

            If only Molly would listen.

 

            Jim Moriarty stood with his arms crossed on the cat walk of the stage. John was kneeling at his feet, blood in his hair and his eyes fuzzy. Moriarty smiled.

            “This is going to be fun, isn’t it, doctor? Seb is delivering your message and I do believe it’s time for me to speak to Ms. Hooper. After all, I owe your friends a fall.”

            “Irene?” John said jaggedly.

            “Oh she’s a good little puppet. If she plays her cards right, she could end up my heir. If not…well you know what happens to traitors,” Moriarty smiled widely.

            “Be a good doctor and stay here. Seb will be back soon and then the show will begin.”

            John stared down at the stage and calculated his odds of shouting and getting help. He yelped when Moriarty smacked him.

            “Don’t even think about it. You call for help and I kill your love,” he snarled.

            John dropped his eyes.

            “Good boy,” Moriarty grinned. He patted John’s cheek as he walked away.

            “Oh Johnny boy, just sit back and enjoy the show!”

 

            It was subtle, but Irene was being watched. She didn’t care. They’d put her in a black gown and Mycroft had given her over to his guards to watch for the night. The dress was sweltering but she ignored the heat. Her eyes scanned the crowd. She saw Molly on Sherlock’s arm. She was mildly surprised that John wasn’t with them but when her guard turned to her and said,

            “Ms. Adler, the black widow. Do come with me,” she wasn’t surprised.

            “You must be Sebastian,” she said.

            “How clever of you. The boss wishes to see you. Come along,” he grinned.

            She inclined her head and moved through the crowd with him. People tried to stop her but she calmly smiled and told them she had places to be. They fell away from her as Sebastian pulled her into the dark corner. She wasn’t surprised to see Moriarty waiting for her.

            “Irene,” he said with fake warmth.

            “Hello,” she greeted coolly.

            “Oh come now, you know you’ve missed me. Life is so boring without me. Admit it,” he smirked.

            “Quite,” she replied.

            “You’ll be happy to know your efforts have not been ignored. Unless things change, you and Ms. Hooper will come out of this scar free. Well…mostly,” he laughed at his own joke. Irene smiled stiffly.

            “And Sherlock?” she asked.

            His eyes shot to her face, his smile fading.

            “Yes, Sherlock. I’m not sure how that will turn out. He is fun, isn’t he? It’s so funny to watch him dance. But we’ll see if he’ll cooperate. I did take his little pet in the hopes of making him play nice, but you never know, do you?”

            “You have John?” Irene asked in surprise.

            “Of course. Both of them thought they could trick me. One by sending him away and the other by not truly going. Love is an affliction, isn’t it, Ms. Adler?” he said pleasantly.

            “I’ve always thought so,” she said steadily.

            “But yet you love Mr. Holmes.”

            She jerked and he laughed.

            “You can’t hide from me. Now stay here, dearest, while I go and talk to the lovely Ms. Hooper,” Moriarty patted her cheek sweetly and she forced herself not to turn her head.

            She took a deep breath as if to speak but in the end, she couldn’t force the words out. He grinned as he walked into the crowd.

 

            Mycroft had Lestrade on his arm and cameras in his face. They had brought com devices and questions were screamed at him about his relationship with his fiancée. Lestrade was cautiously happy but Mycroft couldn’t enjoy his happiness. He knew everything came down to the opera. Everyone needed to play their part. He watched Sherlock scowl at those who came close to him and so he saw when Molly was drawn away and Sherlock turned to a small screen in his hands. He drew his love closer to his side because he knew. Everything was about to fall apart.

 

            Molly was pulled away from Sherlock and the crowd by a gloved hand. When she turned a hesitant smile to the person who had pulled her away, he faltered.

            “Ah yes, Ms. Hooper. I do hope you’re enjoying your night. Irene did such a lovely job on you,” Moriarty ran his finger along the X on her throat.

            Molly lifted her chin and stared at him with icy anger.

            “Don’t look like that. You’ve made it. Just think, when this is over you can sing your lovely tunes forever. Or for as long as I want you to,” he said.

            She turned her head.

            “Come now. I know I promised you the life you wanted, but isn’t this better?  Isn’t it better to do what you’ve always done?”

            She looked furious and he caught her chin roughly.

            “You do not get to ask for more. You nearly ruined me. You have no choice. If you wish to live, you will do what I tell you and you do it without complaint,” he said icily.

            She yanked away from him. “Understood. Now may I go back?” she said stiffly.

            “Of course, pretty one. My Queen needs to be shown to her subjects,” he smiled.

            Molly inched away from him, never once turning her back. He grinned.

 

            On the catwalk, John watched the people mill around. Reporters clamored to talk to Molly and Irene and a group of them stood around Mycroft and Lestrade. There was a fleeting moment of joy for them as he watched Mycroft pull Lestrade closer but his head throbbed and the memory of Victor’s old skin on Moriarty’s hand running down his cheek made him shiver. He searched the crowd for Sherlock and saw him bending over a small com screen. He closed his eyes. He’d become a part of the web.

 

            Sherlock hardly noticed when Molly was pulled away. Someone had placed a com screen in his hand with a preloaded video.  He cupped the small screen in his hand and turned it on. The small hologram popped up and Sherlock leaned on the wall.

            “Hello, Mr. Holmes. It is so nice to see you once again. I’m sure as you watch this you’re wondering what’s happening. You believe your dear John left, but isn’t it funny what people do? Normal people are so boring, so easy to predict. Your John loved you too much to leave, not that I would have let him. But don’t worry, you’ll see him again. Right now,” the hologram smiled and seemed to move away from the screen. Sherlock froze when he saw John.

            His strong John bloody and tied to a chair. His eyes wide and wild. He stared into the com and Sherlock pushed a shaking finger through the small holographic man.

            “Sherlock, if you’re listening to this it means you’re at the opera and I’m still trapped,” Moriarty chuckled from out of the shot, “and that means I’ll need you to save me.”

            Sherlock steeled himself.

            “He’s taken me and no doubt will have me at the opera. I….I need you Sherlock and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this worse for you.”

            “Tell him of my plan,” Moriarty’s voice said from off the screen.

            John stared with icy anger off the com for a moment and then his eyes turned back to the screen.

            “His plan is to keep me on the cat walk. You won’t get to me. He will watch that the opera goes as planned for him, which is to say that his takeover is smooth thanks to Irene and Molly and after, you will come to him to retrieve me. You will be able to take me if you promise allegiance to Moriarty. If you don’t…” John paused but Sherlock could guess what was coming,

            “He’ll kill me like he killed Victor.”

            John’s eyes closed as if he wished to hide from Sherlock’s pain. And indeed, Sherlock was in pain. His eyes widened at the admission. He’d always believed it was his fault that Victor died. He had been told it was his fault. Learning that Moriarty, the man who wished to steal a company from beneath his brother, had killed his husband made shock ripple down his spine.

            “Sherlock…I-“

            The com shut down as quickly as it had turned on and Sherlock could hear the words as they had been spoken in their bed.

            “I love you,” he whispered in return. It didn’t matter that John wasn’t there, he knew John knew it.

            He looked up to the catwalk where he knew John waited for him. As Mycroft announced that the opera would begin, his eyes lit to Molly who gave him a small smile from the stage. He stood at the back of the domed theater and waited.

 

            Molly stood on her perch and held tightly to the sides as it lifted. She saw Moriarty in his corner spot and Irene sitting in the front row. Somewhere, Moriarty had at least one man willing to shoot her. A guard. She could play her part and hope it all worked out or she could stand as she’d always wished. Sherlock nodded to her and she smiled. Now was the time for bravery. She would not be the song bird any longer. She looked to her hands, her fingers were long and fine and could have been trained in doctor’s work. Her nails were perfectly curved and sharp. She could feel the X on her throat like a beacon.

            “Hello,” she greeted regally, “As you all know, you’ve been invited to an opera. The opera where the true heir of GeneCo will be revealed. It has been asked of me to continue on in this position but I fear I cannot answers those calls. As many of you have asked of me and no doubt whisper about once I’m gone, I have indeed been under contract by two agents of GeneCo but I am desolate to say I will be turning down both.”

            Everyone in the audience gasped and Sherlock began to shake his head as he walked forward, his eyes flicking to a spot above her head.  She ignored them. Releasing the rope with one hand, she reached for her throat.

            “Jim Moriarty is the broken link of the chain,” she said boldly, “and he will fall under the weight of the true GeneCo. Jim Moriarty is the man to beware and it will do you all well to remember it.”

            Quickly, she brought her free hand to the X at her neck and clawed. The audience gasped and Irene screamed. Molly saw Sherlock catch her as the blood poured from her skin. It was brutal, ripping at her own skin. She could feel her hands shaking and she lost her grip on the rope. As she tipped backward, she saw bright blue eyes watching her from the catwalk.

            “John?” she croaked as she fell.

            They all watched her graceful descent as if it were part of the show. Hands covered in blood and neck pulsing, Molly hit the stage. Irene screamed once more but Sherlock held her back. Only when Irene lashed out, her nails coming in contact with Sherlock’s face, did he let her go. She flew up onto the stage, her gown tangling in her legs. She didn’t see Mycroft stop the guards from pulling her away but she felt Sherlock follow her.

            “Molly,” Irene whimpered.

            “I told you not to do this!” Sherlock hissed, his eyes tipped up to the catwalk once more.

            Molly smiled. Her back was broken. She knew they would kill her. She lifted a hand and pointed to the catwalk.

            “John,” she said before turning to Irene.

            “Darling, don’t worry. The nightingale only sleeps and you deserve to be a queen,” she whispered through the blood.

            Irene let out a half sob and curled over Molly. “They can’t take you. I won’t let them.”  
            “I am free,” Molly choked.

 

            Sherlock turned from the dying woman and ran for the stairs. Everyone was shouting. Everyone was scared. It was his time to run. He turned only to find John thrown at his feet. He froze. The opera house fell silent.

            “Now, now Mr. Holmes. Don’t decide to be a hero now. We all know you aren’t one. You’re boring. You, Ms. Hooper even Ms. Adler. All of you. So stupid and normal. Emotions are nothing,” Moriarty stood behind John, Victor’s skin as his gloves gripping tightly to John’s wounded shoulder. Sherlock growled when John winced.

            “Sherlock,” John gasped out.

            “Sebastian!” Moriarty snapped past John’s words. The large guard stepped out of the dark and Sherlock saw Mycroft stiffen. He didn’t doubt his guards but he should have. Sebastian Moran was a large man with cruel eyes.

            “Shoot Ms. Hooper. She’s overstayed her welcome,” Moriarty said smoothly.

            Irene let out a yell and stood as Moran came closer. Sherlock didn’t move. Molly was already dying. It didn’t matter to him if someone shot her. He had eyes only for John. He didn’t see Irene yank a hair pin from her hair and brandish it against Moran. He heard the shot as Moran looked at Molly and he turned only slightly when the man bellowed but his eyes never left his partner. John turned his knee slightly. Sherlock saw but didn’t let it show. When Moran stumbled by him, a hair pin in his neck he didn’t listen to the shouts of the scared crowd. If they couldn’t realize it was high time to run, he had no sympathy for them. John had his gun on his thigh and Moriarty didn’t know.

 

            Irene couldn’t see straight. Molly was dead. Her throat nearly clawed out by her own hand, her back broken and a bullet in her head. Moran had hit her but it hardly mattered. Maybe she had loved Molly, after all. The woman’s body was a mess on the stage floor but she saw none of it. Her eyes narrowed at Moriarty. She stood.

            Moriarty watched them all as a spider watches what is stuck in its web. He saw Irene stumble toward him just as he saw Sebastian raise her own hair pin against her. Sherlock didn’t flinch when Moran forced the pin into Irene’s forehead. He didn’t watch her body drop. He would feel the losses later, when John was safe.

            Mycroft couldn’t move. He didn’t know what he could do. His brother, his step brother the repo agent stared down Mycroft’s truest enemy and he could do nothing. Lestrade had his hand over his face and Mycroft pulled the man’s face to his shoulder.

            “Don’t watch, it will be over soon,” he said softly.

            “At what cost?” Lestrade replied.

 

            Irene Adler was dead, her blood seeping across the stage to John’s knees. John didn’t flinch. He’d worked with Sherlock long enough to grow used to blood in his clothing. He looked away from Irene’s dead eyes. Once they had been filled with intelligence but now they stared at nothing. He turned his gaze to Sherlock. He could see the man cataloging every move and everything in the space in front of him. Moran with his hand to his neck, Moriarty holding John down and John with a hidden pistol. He was making a plan.

 

            “What do you want?” Sherlock asked steadily.

            “What a question! World peace, no doubt. But for now, well what I really want is your brother on his knees and you begging me to give back what is yours. You need to learn to share, you Holmes men,” Moriarty said.

            “You want a show,” Sherlock snapped.

            Moriarty tightened his hand on John so John winced.

            “Don’t we all!” he held his arms out to the crowd and incredibly, they cheered.

            “Blood thirsty, aren’t they? Just like Sebastian was. Remember him? You ripped his heart out for a paycheck. Oh don’t pretend you’re above all this. You sold your soul to keep secrets safe and didn’t it turn out they weren’t even yours to keep? Yes, it’s true. I killed your lovely husband. He dragged you down. Now look at you. Living to your potential. This is all I wanted! A game! A wonderful game! And then you went and chose him,” he shook John, “and once again I found the rules placed in my hands. If only you’d follow them, Sherlock, then you wouldn’t be losing so much.”

            “You will give me John back,” Sherlock growled. He didn’t care if he was a show for the people in the audience.

            “Maybe I will. Maybe,” Moriarty sighed, “but that all depends on you.”

            Sherlock took a step forward. Moran caught him.

            “Ah. Not quite yet.”

            Sherlock shook him off. He stared at John. “What. Do. You. Want.”

            Moriarty peeled off his gloves and looked at them thoughtfully.

            “These are my favorite. Such wonderful skin. Beautiful. Supple. And the ring finger scar, so unique,” he said.

            Sherlock made a choked off sound and John tried to move toward him. Moriarty yanked him back.

            “And what a thrill it was to know who he was before. I very rarely see my gloves on hands as they move. He had a delicate touch, did he not?”

            Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. John knew it was time. He twisted under Moriarty’s hand. If the people wanted a show, they would have one. Moriarty tried to hold him still but John was stronger. He threw the man off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock push Moran. Yanking the gun from his thigh with a wince as it stuck to his skin, he pushed Moriarty back.

            “We are not pawns,” he said, his voice low. Moriarty looked dully up at John.

            “Go ahead, shoot me.”

            “Don’t!” Moran barked. John turned. Sherlock was being held by Moran, the pin from Irene’s hair held to his head.

            “You know I can push this straight throw his skull if I wish. Drop the gun and step away,” Moran said.

            Sherlock shook his head slightly. John didn’t move. He could kill the evil mastermind or he could save his love. He waited for someone to give. No one moved. It seemed no one breathed. Slowly, he backed away with his hands up.

            “Very good, Doctor. Seb,” Moriarty waved his hand and Moran released Sherlock. The crowd let out their breath.

            “Now, Sherlock. That was a bad thing you both did. It seems you will never see your doctor again,” Moriarty shrugged and Sherlock saw white.

            Later it would be told to him that Moran punched him so he wouldn’t fight. That the pin found its way into his neck and that John broke Moriarty’s neck with his bare hands when he saw Sherlock fall. He would learn that Mycroft, ever prepared, shot Moran in the back as he fled the scene. All he remembered of the night was the crowd cheering and the sightless eyes of the women he’d hoped to save as he fell to his knees.

 

            The opera house was empty. After the war raged on stage and silence had fallen, Mycroft had announced his lack of heir while John and Sherlock were taken to GeneCo hospital. He had cancelled the operas and closed the revolving door of GeneCo as to organize the company once more. With his fiancée by his side, he’d left and with him, the crowds had followed. GeneCo would be changed forever. When the doors were pulled shut, the blood was being wiped from the floors but the memory would remain. GeneCo would continue on but without the song of its Queen or the cool laughter of its heiress. Jim Moriarty lay with unseeing eyes on the floor of the stage, a final prop of his own show. No one would see Moran for years but talk of him would travel. The legends of GeneCo would stretch oceans and lands but it didn't matter to those who knew the story. They were happy simply to live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the story :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love somewhat happy endings! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! As always, I love comments and thank you all for reading :)

Sherlock woke to a kiss. He smiled before his eyes opened. John laughed in relief.

            “I thought he’d killed you,” he sighed, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s.

            “So did I,” Sherlock admitted.

            John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and put his chin on the top of Sherlock’s head.

            “They killed them,” he said. Sherlock didn’t need names to know who he talked about. He closed his eyes. He could still see Molly’s bloody throat and Irene’s blank eyes. The woman he’d hoped to save. The women who were his equals. He nodded painfully.

            “It isn’t your fault,” John said into Sherlock’s hair.

            Sherlock didn’t reply but simply clung to John. His neck hurt even though he could tell they’d fixed it up.

            “Only cosmetic,” Mycroft said from the doorway. Sherlock didn’t bother to ask how he knew what Sherlock was thinking about. He burrowed closer to John.

            “Did he hurt you?” Sherlock asked, his voice muffled by John’s shoulder.

            John shook his head. He pulled back to look in Sherlock’s eyes.

            “I’m sorry about Victor,” he said softly.

            Sherlock knew he meant it which proved to him that John was the best man he’d ever met. If Victor was still alive, he never would have met John. He never would have loved him. They never would have needed each other. In a twisted way, he was thankful for his husband’s death. He hadn’t missed Victor as much when he was with John. It didn’t mean he loved the man less, only that finally, he could move past a life he would never have again. He smiled softly at John.

            “Thank you. It’s…well it is what it is,” he said wistfully.

            “In light of everything,” Mycroft said from the door, “I am willing to negotiate your contract.”

            “What? Why?” Sherlock frowned.

            “I’ve been holding something over your head for years. Something, it seems, you weren’t a part of. Now the whole world knows it. There’s no need for me to put this in your contract. Whatever position you want, you can have,” Mycroft explained.

            John smiled slowly as Sherlock shook his head. John knew Sherlock loved his job.

            “No. I want to keep doing this,” Sherlock said resolutely. Mycroft looked surprised.

            “But?” he asked.

            “But I want to be able to sew up those who could survive,” Sherlock said.

            John nodded his approval. The doctor in him hated watching people bleed when they didn’t need to. He’d grown used to the bloody business of ripping out spines, hearts, livers and kidneys but when it was an eye or something trivial like an appendix (apparently there’d been a fad for them a month before) he couldn’t stand to watch them twitch on the floor when they could be helped.

            Mycroft seemed to shift his weight before answering. John wondered what that meant in Holmes language since Sherlock seemed to smile. Mycroft inclined his head finally and said, “Very well.”

            As if he had been waiting, Lestrade came up behind Mycroft and smiled in relief at Sherlock.

            “Oh good, you’re doing alright. Mycroft and John wouldn’t let anyone near you for a while. Protective men you’ve got here,” he grinned easily.

            Mycroft winced and John pulled Sherlock closer to him while he blushed but Sherlock smiled for real. It was slightly lopsided and when it shifted to John, a little promising and it shut them all up.

            “I do,” he said. “You know you saved both of our lives,” he said to John who truly flushed.

            “He wouldn’t have killed you,” John mumbled.

            “He would have,” Sherlock argued.

            “You’re both heroes,” Mycroft interrupted, “Now Sherlock needs his rest and John, you should sleep too. He’s been here all night waiting for you.”

            Sherlock turned to John who seemed suddenly shy. “Well it’s just too cool in our room without you,” he said.

            Sherlock laughed and pulled John in for a kiss. As their mouths moved together Lestrade looked at the ceiling and Mycroft cleared his throat.

            “While I hate to break up this reunion, I also wanted to let you know we’re having a service for Ms. Adler and Ms. Hooper tomorrow if you wish to attend.”

            Sherlock’s smile dimmed and he swallowed before nodding.

            “Not your fault,” John said once more. Sherlock looked at the wall. John turned his gaze to Mycroft. It was somewhat cold and accusatory. Lestrade pulled on his fiancée’s arm.

            “Come on, let’s let them rest. Like you said, they need it,” he said to Mycroft.

            Mycroft took in his step brother and nodded, turning to Lestrade. “Yes, we should head home anyway. The planner is coming.”

            Lestrade smiled and tugged on Mycroft’s hand. “Yes, we need to decide on seating,”  
 he said.

            John couldn’t help but smile in their direction. Sherlock had sunk back into his bed with his eyes closed but John could read the somewhat grudging grin on his face. When Lestrade had pulled Mycroft out into the hall and shut the door, John climbed onto the small bed with Sherlock who hummed in appreciation.

            “I’ve missed you,” John said into Sherlock’s neck.

            He smelled like chemicals and warmth and something that came only from Sherlock and John burrowed in closer. Sherlock brought his arms around John and kissed the top of his head.

            “I’ve missed you as well,” Sherlock said.

            “I am sorry…” John trailed off.

            “I know. It’s okay. I’m okay. My neck hurts, but I’m okay,” Sherlock stroked his hand down John’s back.

            John smiled sleepily. He was truly exhausted and with his body curled up close to Sherlock’s he could feel himself relax. He’d been on edge even when Sherlock had been asleep with the bandage on his neck. With Sherlock’s body warming his he fell asleep easily. Sherlock smiled as John’s breath evened out and slowly, he sunk into unconsciousness himself.

            The opera was never opened again. Mycroft found a new group of scientists and workers to build in the company and soon had named a new heir. His name was Gregson and he was a close friend of Lestrade’s.

            Sherlock spoke at the service for Molly and Irene. Though he didn’t cry, John saw his pain. After, they knelt together and lit a candle for Victor. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and silently thanked Victor for giving him Sherlock. Sherlock thanked Victor for all of their good times and for letting him go enough to let him have John. When they left, they leaned on one another with their hands entwined.

            Irene and Molly were laid to rest next to one another. The Grave Robber left orchids at their graves and never tried to steal the Zydrate from their systems.

            GeneCo allowed Zydrate use in repossessions of minor organs. Though it wasn’t less brutal, it was a small step in the right direction.

            Lestrade and Mycroft married in a large ceremony that was broadcasted across London. Sherlock was best man to his brother but he frowned the whole time. After the service, John asked Sherlock to marry him. No one was surprised he said yes.

            Life didn’t change much at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson got an upgrade so she could make tea for her tenants. She still told them about Mrs. Turner and her robotic husband and the two men still spent lazy mornings in bed that morphed into afternoons of experiments and then into nights of repossessions and making love once they made it home.

            Sherlock figured out the X genetic and thrilled the world with his find. He grudgingly became a face of GeneCo with John by his side. The days lay out in front of them in a haze of danger and lazy closeness. Every day, Sherlock thanked Victor for his love and John thanked whoever he could thank for his finding Sherlock.

            On their first anniversary, John had his heart replaced with a replica of Sherlock’s original heart. It was Mycroft’s gift to them. When they lay side by side they counted out the beats, Sherlock with his fingers tapping on John’s hip and John with his palm sliding on Sherlock’s spine. It was the perfect beginning to their story and if people hid when they walked down the street they would only smile. The repo man in his dark suit and his guard with the scarred shoulder and gun on his hip, ready to invade the night.  

 


End file.
